Making It Count
by RipredtheGnawer
Summary: A continuation of My Dreams Smell of Roses, in Peeta's POV, as he tries to fulfill Prim's dying wish and maybe - just maybe - end the Capitol's reign forever. Remember: living is only living until you die.
1. Chapter 1: Losing

**A/N: So, here it is, as promised. This one is pretty short, but I'm working on making the chapters longer. Also, my English teacher has my copy of "The Hunger Games" (yeah, I know, I've advertised the books WAY too much) and hopefully I'll have it back by tonight, so then I can find out what happens next. And so can all of you. Please enjoy, and, of course, review!**

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Chapter 1: Losing

The cannon rings out and I feel as though it has blasted through my body. I've won the Hunger Games – yes, I've won, but at a terrible price. Primrose Everdeen, so sweet and innocent, is dead and I am not. And here I am, bent over her small, broken body, her blood on my hands. I weep for her as Claudius Templesmith's voice announces my victory.

This isn't a victory. I haven't won. In fact, I've lost. Peeta Mellark is no more. I'm just a boy without a future.

I haven't won. The Capitol has won. They won by taking everything I was and destroying it. My family? Check. My mother doesn't want me around and the rest are too afraid of her to say otherwise. My friends? Check. I can't face them after this. My love? Check. Katniss will never be able to forgive me for standing by as her sister died. I don't blame her.

The hovercraft appears and I climb onto the ladder because, as much as I despise returning to the Capitol, anything is better than this hellish arena.

As soon as I enter the hovercraft and the door slides shut behind me, a doctor is treating my cuts and splinting my ankle. Only then do I realize that I am holding someone. Except it's not a person anymore, because the spark of life has gone and left behind an empty shell. I am numb as a gloved figure lifts Primrose Everdeen's corpse from my arms and she vanishes.

The feelings return and I am suddenly a monster, shouting and thrashing. "Get away! Don't touch me!" After only three seconds, a needle jabs into my arm and everything begins to swirl away. Somehow, I manage to remember that Prim is dead.

She's not really gone, of course. She will never be gone. I know that as long as I live I will see her face each time I close my eyes. Feel her blood, hot and wet. Hear her last message: "Please… you and my sister… make this count."

I wish.


	2. Chapter 2: Can't Believe It

Chapter 2: Can't Believe It

When I come to, I can't see anything. Rather, I can't see anything good. The images torment my mind. It's like watching my life play over inside of myself. Only fragments stand out.

"…Even the birds stop to listen…" My father.

"…Do you think anybody will buy burnt bread?..." My mother.

"…Hey, pay attention! Stop staring at her…" Richard, my best friend.

"…For District Twelve is Peeta Mellark…" Effie Trinket.

"…Why bother…" I can't even think her name anymore.

The images and sounds come faster now, burying me alive.

"…Even without all the mutts and explosions…" There's a burning pain, all over.

"…Because I pushed her…" I'm being stabbed with ten thousand knives.

"…The blood on my hands…" I can't bear this.

"NO!" My eyes fly open. I don't want to relive these horrors. It was bad enough the first time, but nothing could possibly be worse than what I am enduring now.

I stare up at the white ceiling, amazed at how pristine it is. So flawlessly painted, without any mark or defect. Then common sense takes over, and I realize that such a perfect thing could only come from the Capitol.

The Capitol, where there are cameras and where people are analyzing my every move. With this in mind, I climb out of the bed and shudder as I see the arena uniform nearby. I put it on, but long to cast it away. The feel of the fabric is menacing.

The wall slides open and I walk out, realizing with some shock how healthy I am. I was one of District 12's well to do, but even we had limited food. In the arena, since I was only there for three or four days, there wasn't much time for me to really starve. But I've never felt as completely whole as I do now.

If it weren't for the gaping wound in my heart.

I walk down the hall that has been revealed and see Effie, Haymitch, and Portia waiting for me. Haymitch claps me on the shoulder and says, "Congratulations," in a gruff tone. Effie is her usual excited self, full of compliments. Portia just hugs me and then leads me to my prep team.

I've almost forgotten their names, what with the cloud of misery that's hanging over me. There's Rochelle, the woman with super-pale skin and orange eyes. It's a mystery to me how she managed that operation without going blind. Then comes Hamlet, the rather dramatic man who's fond of long, curly wigs and spotted suits. Lastly, there's Chiffon, the youngest. She's got lustrous blonde hair and strikingly blue eyes. The only visible enhancements are on her feet. They're absolutely tiny, and she has to use special shoes to walk.

They exclaim over how I've been given a full body polish, and then get to work painting me. I settle in my chair and do my best to ignore their incessant babble, but it works its way into my ears somehow. It's all about how lucky I am to have won, and my bravery in attacking the careers, and how strong I must be to defeat Thresh. Not one word is said about the flower who died for me, so that I could go home. Nothing except one line by Rochelle:

"I can't believe you did all that for a little girl!"

I want to walk out right then and there, but Portia is waiting and she's so genuinely nice that I don't want to upset her. So I grit my teeth and do my best to think fairly. _They've been raised to believe this. It's not their fault. They don't know anything else._ It doesn't help much.

My prep team leaves and Portia returns, bringing clothes and a certain amount of sanity with her. I dress and find that I'm in an elegant suit, something I might wear… never. I've never had even the slightest opportunity to wear anything close to this in my life.

It's quite nice, though. White undershirt and jacket with black pants. There's a black tie as well. Portia fixes a perfect red rose in my buttonhole and I feel like I'm going to my wedding. Or my execution.

"Presto," she says, stepping back to admire me. I stand there awkwardly, thinking that maybe I should thank her, and realize that she's scrutinizing my face rather than my outfit.

"I'm sorry, Peeta," she murmurs.

"For what?" I ask dumbly.

"No one should have to go through what you've endured." I look in her eyes and see an almost motherly warmth before she glances around as if she's afraid. Of course. She as good as said that she disapproves of the Capitol with that simple sentence. "Okay, let's get you to the show. It's for you, after all," she says, and leads me to a room that's underneath the stage. She rushes away and Haymitch appears.

He gives me a surprising one-armed hug, and just before he releases me, he whispers, "The Games aren't over yet. Be careful." I stiffen and then force myself to relax. He takes a step back, his eyes boring into mine. I hear his silent message: _Do you understand?_

I nod almost imperceptibly. I do understand. I understand that, by my obvious brother-like affection for Prim, and my unwillingness to let her die, I have defied the Capitol. This should scare me silly, but instead I feel a sort of burning satisfaction. Panem needs to know that what is happening is profoundly wrong.

There's still enough of the arena left in me, though, that I remember that this is the Capitol we're talking about. And if they want to kill me – or anyone I care about – they can.

So I know I'll have to watch my step.


	3. Chapter 3: To Watch Them Win

Chapter 3: To Watch them Win

The glass slides up around me and, although I've never had stage fright in my life, right now I think I'm finding out what it's like. Although it may just be the fact that my life is on the line tonight.

The metal plate under my feet is raising me upward. My heartbeat is accelerating. My face is flushing… in anger. I will make the Capitol pay for what it has done to Primrose Everdeen.

I emerge on the stage to the deafening roar of the crowd. They are screaming my name, calling out to me, to the boy who killed seven people. Eight, if you count the final death. I think I do.

Sitting on the throne made for the victor, I want to go home more than I ever have. Maybe it's weak. Maybe a murderer – for that's what I am now – should be stronger and show no weaknesses, but I don't care. I just want to smell bread again, sweet and warm. I sigh.

Caesar Flickerman, still with his powder blue hair, lips, and eyelids, jokes around a bit and then gets down to business. The giant screen slides into place and lights up with the Capitol seal. The anthem plays as the words "The Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games" flash in my eyes.

Then there's that girl Glimmer standing up on the Reaping stage next to Cato. I watch the reapings in a sort of daze, realizing that everyone I see is dead. The chariot ride for the opening ceremony and the training are also vague. The interviews are cloudy, but unfortunately I come into focus as the bloodbath begins.

I watch myself end Clove's life and steal her knives before escaping into the woods. The Careers – with the exception of Prim, who stands uncertainly off to the side, watching the battle with fear on her face – fight it out and lose only Glimmer. Then I see myself trekking through the woods with my weapons held at the ready. I remember what I was thinking:

_It's so quiet… peaceful. Is this what it's like when you die? It's not a half-bad spot._ On-screen, I see the corners of my mouth lift slightly. I look insane. _Might as well enjoy life while I can. I'm not coming home._

With the crazy smile dying on my lips, I slow to a halt and stare at the ground. I remember that that was when I truly realized that my plan was to let Prim live though it meant my death. I didn't know it then, but that was her plan, too.

As I stand deciding my fate, a twig snaps behind me. I whip around to see the girl from 9 rush into the open and kick my gut before I have a chance to even raise a knife. My past self on the television falls to the ground and she tackles me, beating at me with her surprisingly strong fists. Somewhere in the whirlwind I drop my weapon.

She snatches it up and holds the blade to my throat, sitting on top of me and pinning me down. Her other hand keeps my head on the ground. She's breathing hard. "It's over, District 12." Then she falls backward as a rock hits her between the eyes.

I jump up as her cannon goes off. Turning, I see little Rue from 11 standing with her slingshot still raised. "Thanks," I gasp. I take a hesitant step towards her, about to ask if she'd like to form an alliance, when another tribute emerges from the trees.

Thresh's face is twisted in fury as he charges towards me, swinging his fists. I'm strong, but I've got nothing compared to him. I can only hope that I'm more agile than he is.

It's not really a fair fight. I _do_ move more quickly than him, and he's bleeding heavily from a gash on his forehead so he can barely see. How he was wounded, I'll never know. He doesn't have any weapon but I have my knife that I grabbed from the girl's corpse.

On the stage, watching myself duck around Thresh, I can't breathe. Must be some kind of reaction to watching yourself fight a giant, knowing you're going to win, and knowing he didn't do anything wrong.

In fact, when I finally slit his throat just before his fist connects with my skull, Rue watches as I stand panting and shaky. Her strange golden eyes are wide and kind of awed.

"Thresh was only trying to protect me," she says, her voice shrill from fear. "He thought you were going to hurt me. He was trying to keep me safe." I'm not sure she's talking to me.

"He was doing a good job of it," I tell her. I look at the huge body on the ground and see a sort of brother figure, doing exactly what I must do. I didn't want to kill him, but I knew I would have to sooner or later. If I was going to keep Primrose alive.

Minutes later an alliance is formed. It's still something of a mystery: how I ended up with the tiny little twelve-year-old relying on me, how, in the end, it didn't matter. How I cared about her.

Then the view switches to the Careers plus Prim walking, being ambushed. Everything happens so fast and then they are surrounded by three corpses on the bloodstained forest floor.

It's back to Rue and me, discussing what we're going to do. It's the former who suggests the attack on the Careers' camp, and then we have to scour the arena to find them. It's fairly easy; they're not far off. Rue effortlessly scales a tree without the slightest sound, and I paint myself into a tree. Camouflage isn't difficult if you know what to do.

It's night when we launch our raid. Everything happens exactly as it did the first time, but watching it on a screen makes it worse. Seeing those removed, pixellated images bleeding and dying… I close my eyes.

I know when it's over because there's general birdsong. Rue is on the screen, singing softly to a mockingjay. I am in the background, bandaging Prim's arm. She is so tiny and frail lying there, her blond hair tucked neatly out of the way. Her cheeks are flushed with fever… were. They will never flush again.

Then I leave and she wakes, just before I return. We talk for a while before drifting into an uneasy sleep, with the faces of the dead still hanging in the sky.

For two days we stay in our small copse, trying to grow stronger in a place with limited food, limited water, and death on all sides. Then, as twilight falls on the second day, the screen shows Appo grimly dragging himself towards the stream. Blood is streaming from his shoulder wound and a gash in his stomach that I'm fairly sure I created.

He makes it to the water and eagerly scoops up handfuls, splashing around. Of course, when you're half-dead and dehydrated, there's not much you can do, but he's still making a lot more noise than necessary.

This thought occurs to the fox-faced girl from 5, Vulpe, as well. She was hiding in the bushes near the stream and now creeps into the open. Clapping one hand over Appo's mouth, she shoves him into the water before releasing him. He tries to surface but she dunks him again and again. Finally, after a whole ten minutes of agonizingly detailed torture, I watch the tribute's struggles become feeble and then nonexistent, and the cannon rings out.

Then next morning, the sun is unrelentingly hot as it beats down on the backs of our defeated-looking trio. We make our way toward the Cornucopia and everything happens so smoothly that it might have been rehearsed: Vulpe slits Rue's throat, I throw a knife into her heart, and they both collapse.

Watching what happens next is even worse, knowing what will happen and knowing that it is my fault. It will always be my fault. Who am I kidding? I don't deserve to be here. I've enjoyed my life as a privileged baker's son. It was supposed to be Prim's turn to have comfort.

But I hear her say the words for the second time and wonder if she would have thanked me.

"I won't really be living the rest of my life. I killed Feli, Peeta. I _killed_ her. She's dead and I see her face every time I close my eyes."

Not at first, I decide. But someday, after she'd met a guy and settled down… then she might have been happy.

Now, of course, she never will be.

As if to echo my thoughts, the sound system of the show blasts her cannon for the last time.

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**A/N: Whew! This was kinda exhausting. I feel like Peeta. It's no fun to repeat all that!**


	4. Chapter 4: Who Deserves It?

**A/N: So, I don't know if you guys are liking this fic or not. I hope it's the former, but who knows? And I promise, he'll be home soon!**

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Chapter 4: Who Deserves It?

Sometimes I wish I was never born. That nobody had ever heard my name or seen my face. That the burden of what has happened weighs upon someone else's shoulders.

No, of course I don't. Not really. I can't wish this pain upon another human being.

President Coriolanus Snow, however, is a different matter. As his snakelike eyes gaze into mine, as he shakes my hand and congratulates me on becoming a victor, I gaze back and think, _You are a monster. You deserve to die every death you have ever inflicted upon anybody._ In that instant, I think he may understand. But just to be perfectly clear, I add, _I will personally stop your heart._

The victory feast is horrible. How many times will someone tell me how lucky I am, how incredibly brave I must be, how strong I am and how they will look for me at the Games next year.

The Games next year. When I'll be mentoring the boy and girl for the seventy-fifth Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell, when I'll watch them die – because, more likely than not, they _will_ die – and I'll go home and tell their families that I'm sorry for their losses and that their children died brave deaths. Right.

Eventually, after hours of being surrounded by increasingly intoxicated faces, the feast is over. I make my way back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center, where I spent the week leading up to the Games. I lie in bed, but sleep refuses to come.

I'm exhausted, so I should be out in seconds, except I'm not. Why? I'm not afraid anymore. There's no immediate threat to my life, because they can't execute the victor without a cover story. So what's keeping me awake?

Then I realize: it's the emptiness.

Since I first saw her on the Reaping stage, there has been a place in my heart that only Primrose Everdeen could fill. It will be empty forever. I know this now, and it only strengthens my desire to right the wrongs that I've witnessed. To inflict them on the person who committed them in the first place.

Comforted by the thought, I drift away.

In the morning I wake and have just enough time to avoid choking on my breakfast before my prep team swarms around me. They're slow and lethargic from their hangovers, and only Hamlet seems to be making any effort to be cheerful. He mumbles about how I've been great to prep and that he'll miss me. But I don't really listen, and I can see he's too tired to care.

Portia shoos them away and soon I'm clad in a suit with a wine-red jacket and black pants. She places a crown on my head and deftly lights it, and the déjà-vu is so strong that I have to close my eyes. I can feel her hand in mine, tiny and warm. That chariot ride. She was so full of life then.

I force the thought from my head. I can't afford to be rebellious right now, not when so much counts on me playing my part perfectly.

"Why?" I ask in a strained voice. "There's no reason to keep it up."

"They need a reminder," she tells me, "of what used to be. And how it's broken you."

Has it broken me? Yes, I realize. It has. Prim's death has cleaved me in two. I'm bleeding away, draining in the darkness of a world that no longer cares.

"Go," Portia orders. "Get to your interview. Now."

"Okay," I agree. I weave my way to the room behind the interview stage, the whole time thinking that this is madness. With my headdress blazing I know that my stylist is on my side. This is an act of pure rebellion. To let the audience know what I've lost, what the world has lost because of the girl's death? Portia's statement is nothing short of heroic.

When I get to the door that will take me to the stage, I hesitate. Not out of fear or nervousness, but because I need to formulate a plan. How to cut the Capitol deeply enough that there will be no doubt? How to challenge them clearly? How…?

My eyes widen in horror. I've just realized that this is not what I should be doing. Not yet, at least. I need time to get home and raise a fighting force if I'm interested in this war stuff. Because me, a sixteen-year-old boy all on his own, I can't do anything.

I walk through the door and take a seat across from Caesar. The cheers and exclamations at my fiery attire ring in my ears, and I smile.

It's crucial that I am flawless today. The survival of many hangs on my performance. I'm sure of it. I look into the man's eyes intensely. _Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in?_ Because without a doubt, Caesar will have to act perfectly as well if he wants to live.

"Hello, Peeta. Welcome back." Caesar Flickerman winks at me and I give an easy nod back. On the stage, we fit together like puzzle pieces. He asks the questions that he chooses and I answer them in my own fashion, turning the tone however I wish. He knows it.

"Hi," I say. Let the Games begin for real.


	5. Chapter 5: Homecoming

Chapter 5: Homecoming

"So, Mr. Mellark…" Caesar sounds like a school principal. "You've had quite a bit of drama these past four days, haven't you?"

"That's one way of putting it," I say, and there's a small pain in my heart. _Drama._ Not exactly summing things up.

"That first day, when Gayla Avaline tackled you, I really thought it was all over." I realize he's naming the girl from 9. "What was going on in your mind?"

"I was just thinking about how I was going to die, and that I didn't want it to be like this." Caesars eyes tighten at this tiny slip in my "good boy" façade. "Luckily for me, Rue was there to help."

"Yes, it was very fortunate. We viewers in the Capitol, we were really on the edge of our seats when Thresh appeared. Weren't we?" Caesar turns to the audience, including them. They roar their agreement.

We continue in this manner for quite some time. Caesar asks what he hopes are innocent questions, and I answer them in ways that seem harmless enough but in the off chance that the districts are listening – and that they agree with me – my message will be made clear.

President Snow will not be happy with me. I know this. But I am burning with my desire to avenge little Primrose Everdeen. She _died_ for me, and while I'm certain there will be repercussions, some part of me can't resist striking out against the monsters that are haunting my dreams.

Things blur together after the interview. The train ride is spent in my room, doing my best to block out the thoughts of _her._ But there's someone else, another girl whom I can't stop thinking of, no matter how hard I try.

Katniss Everdeen.

Her brown hair in the braid she has always worn, her gray eyes watching me. She'll be watching me, I know. What I don't know is _how_. How will she watch me? Will there be pity, or hatred, or some other emotion in those beautiful gray eyes?

We pull into the station and someone carts Haymitch off before he does something stupid. I stand there staring out the window at the crowd which is cheering for me. I see my family there – My mother and father with Larson and Travis beside them. Everyone but my mother is smiling. Well, she is, but I can tell it's false. Her lips curl up but no happiness shows in her eyes. I look away and tell myself that she's always acted like this, that it doesn't matter. But if I'm honest with myself, it hurts.

I step off of the train and my father embraces me. Then my brothers are there, yelling that they can't believe I didn't come in first in the wrestling matches if I had it in me to fight Thresh. I don't point out that Larson, who _did_ win, is two years older than Thresh and at least as big. My mother stands off to the side, watching me. Just watching.

Richard – my best friend since first grade – walks my way. I shift nervously, not meeting his eyes. He says in an uncertain tone, "It's, er, great to have you back. Glad you made it out. Congratulations."

I don't blame him for sounding like he does. I'd probably act the same if my friend became a mass-murderer in three days.

There's only one person I really want to see, although I'm sure she doesn't want to see me. She's got to be a wreck and I wonder if I can face her after all, what with me being the cause.

In any case, I don't see anyone else because I'm driven in another car to the Victors' Village. This is the one thing about winning that I don't mind – the houses. No more cold bathwater, no more drafts, and best of all, no more stale bread. My family and I will eat well from now on.

The day is a confusing whirlwind. I move my few possessions into my new house, which, despite my efforts, continues to look empty and bare. My parents will stay in the bakery and so will my brothers. Looks like I'm alone here. Not that there's much to miss.

I have no time to myself. The camera crews and reporters don't leave for even one second so there's no chance of me having any time to myself. I must greet enthusiastic citizens, and that's when the magnitude of what I've done, what I've allowed to happen, sinks in.

Some people, mainly the shopkeepers, are genuinely excited to see me. They pump my hand up and down, smiling so hard that I'm afraid their skulls will split. But others, the olive-skinned and gray-eyed dwellers of the Seam, barely mask the look of despise in their faces. I think I'm on their side, actually. I hate myself more than they could ever hate me.

When the house grows dark, the memories grow louder. I hunch over in the bed, trying to stop them. But of course they don't leave. I sit before the fire in the kitchen, watching the flames. Remembering her, in the glowing half-light before the chariot ride.

She was smiling that night. A hysterical, terrified, crushed smile, but still – a smile. What I wouldn't give to see it again. But as much as I long for it, I know it wasn't real. She was smiling but there was no joy.

I hope she's happier now.


	6. Chapter 6: Flip Side

**A/N: Sorry this chapter is so late in coming - I've been _way_ too into my one-shots lately. Here you go, and please don't hate me too much.**

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Chapter 6: Flip Side

I don't go to find Katniss the next day. Or the day after that. In fact, I don't seek her out for two whole months. I never knew that a victor's life could be so interesting – it certainly doesn't seem that way to me – but apparently the viewers in the Capitol are either entranced by the poverty of my district or they have nothing better to do. Personally, I'm half-glad for the cameras. I don't have time to dwell on anything.

But there's a flip side, of course.

My mother doesn't speak to me unless she's being insulting. It's not new, but I suppose I'd hoped things would be different. Larson and Travis are friendly enough, but they've always been quiet. I never know what they're thinking. My father is the only person who seems to care.

Richard is no longer distant, but things are different between us. I don't think he knows what to say to me anymore. I can see it in his eyes – his best friend has come back, but empty. A shell. I find myself agreeing with his analysis.

The cameras and reporters finally go, leaving a tangible silence in their wake. I wonder what to do with myself. I'm baking every day and finishing school, but it leaves a lot of free time all the same. Haymitch is out of the question, what with his alcohol-induced stupors and rages and everything else. Really, there's only one place to go: the Seam.

I walk down the grimy, coal-dust-covered streets, trying to act as though I'm supposed to be here. That my blonde hair doesn't stand out. That my blue eyes have seen the hunger and desperation and sadness before. That it's not a new sight, but one I have gazed upon many times.

Away from the Capitol, I'm a terrible liar.

I soon realize that I could wander in the Seam for hours and not find Katniss's house. I've never been there and I don't know where she lives. There's nothing on the houses to mark them as individuals – everything is a dark grayish wood. No decorations, no nameplates.

_What am I doing here?_ I ask myself. _Why did I come? _I don't know what I was thinking. I'd really like to give up, turn around, and go home. But I'm a victor. And victors don't give up.

I don't know what to do, though, so I settle on doing exactly what I've _been_ doing: wandering around as though I'm lost, which, in fact, I am. I do this for about an hour and a half, always watching for the black braid and sharp, accusing stare, before someone approaches me.

"Do you need something?"

I don't know him. He's Seam through and through, with olive skin and hard gray eyes. About nineteen years old. But I've never spoken to him. He knows me, though. I can see it in his face. It wears the same disgusted mask that I've seen so many times.

"Um…"

He turns and walks away.

"Wait!" I follow him and he looks back, listening. "I was, uh, wondering if you could tell me where Katniss Everdeen lives? Please?" I add as an afterthought.

He stands there for a long moment, just watching me. I can see that he's deciding whether or not to tell me… tell me what? Apparently I pass the test and he opens his mouth to answer me.

"She's gone."


	7. Chapter 7: Concerning Escape

**A/N: Gosh, I'm _so_ sorry for the wait, guys! It's up now, though!**

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Chapter 7: Concerning Escape

"Gone?" I echo him, numb as what he's said sinks in. "You mean she's d-dead?" I can't think clearly through the haze of panic that is clouding my mind.

"No," he says, just as I'm about to lose it completely. "She's alive. Or, she was the last time I saw her."

"Where is she?" I ask, unable to contain my excitement.

"I already told you," he says irritably. "Gone." He cocks his head and I see a glimmer of something akin to amusement in his eyes. "You didn't know her at all, did you, Lover Boy?"

"I—" I have to stop for a moment and think. And then I realize: I didn't, _don't _know Katniss Everdeen. I know what she looks like, I know the names of her family, but nothing else. The closest I have ever come to understanding her was that day five years ago in the rain. "No," I admit.

"Well, believe me, she's not one to stick around when there's nothing to keep her here."

"But – her mother?"

"Dead," the man informs me bluntly. "Dead for two months."

Though I'd never had any connection to her whatsoever, this news shocks me. It freshens my knowledge of what I've done, how horrible I'd been on that final day in front of the Cornucopia. How far my destruction has spread.

"How?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Suicide," the man says in a quiet, solemn voice. I can see the shadow of grief in his eyes and surmise that he _did _know Mrs. Everdeen.

"I'm sorry," I say. There's nothing else to do but turn away. After a moment he touches my back and I see that he's right behind me.

"I don't believe I've introduced myself," he says. "I'm Thom Foundry."

I shake his hand. "Peeta Mellark," I reply, though I'm certain he already knows. Everyone knows my name, thanks to a certain flower. "Didn't Katniss have a friend – Gale?" _Boyfriend_, I think, but don't say it. I'm certain she'd stay here for him.

"He left with her," Thom tells me. Then he glances around furtively. "We can't talk about this here," he mutters. I know he's right. Even now I can see a Peacekeeper with curly red hair watching us intently. I stare steadily back at him and he looks away.

"Right," I breathe back. "Know anywhere we can?" My house obviously isn't an option. The cameras only cleared out a week and a half ago.

"My place," Thom offers. I nod and follow him through the near-deserted streets until we reach what can only be called a shack. Maybe four rooms at most with an undeniable air of hopelessness. But the inside is different – there's a clean, if somewhat faded, tablecloth and a bouquet of wildflowers in a chipped cup on the table. Although the furniture is shabby and coal dust is very present, sunlight streams through the single window to dance on the water in the sink.

There's a woman washing dishes there, middle-aged with strength etched in every line on her face. Her gray eyes appraise me and I can't read the expression in them. Recognition flits across her features, but she still asks, "Who's this?" Her voice is hard like steel and wary, but not harsh.

Thom doesn't answer, so I do. "Peeta Mellark, ma'am."

"I see." She turns to Thom. "Why?"

"There are… things he needs to know."

She gives me a long look, still unreadable. Finally she nods. "Well, Mr. Mellark, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Hestia."

"It's nice to meet you, too."

With that, Thom leads me to an absolutely tiny room that's almost completely filled with a bed. He sits down on the edge and gestures for me to do the same. When I have, he begins to talk.

"When you won, it was pandemonium. It was like a mining accident. Everyone had been in the streets already, watching on the bigger screens, and then – her cannon fired, and you'd think it had hit the district. Complete chaos. People couldn't really decide what they thought. I mean, you'd won, we had another Victor! But everybody's met Prim. You can't help loving her."

His matter-of-fact, calloused words send a pang through me. Reminding me that I've committed an unspeakable act. And that I will go to my grave regretting it. I can almost hear the hammers on my coffin.

"Gale was already at the Everdeen house, he'd watched the entire Games with them. He went over there with a huge, hopeful grin on his face. I remember he said, 'She's so close to winning. I can feel it in my bones – she's going to come back.'

"I didn't have a chance to meet up with him afterward, but he didn't show up the next day. It was a weekend, so it didn't really matter. But then it was Monday, and he didn't come to work. They sent some Peacekeepers to his house and it was empty. That Darius fellow, he knew how close Gale was to Katniss, so he checked their house, too, in case he was still there. That one was empty, too.

"Gale'd been talking about running for a while. He wanted to escape. As close as I can figure, he stayed at the Everdeen house for the rest of the day, and then all night. Sometime while he was there, Mrs. Everdeen left for Prim." I know exactly what he's talking about, because there's no doubt that Primrose's mother committed suicide to find her daughter. "I imagine that, with no one left, Gale took some back roads to his own house and somehow convinced his family to leave. They probably slipped under the fence just a few hours after that."

So she's gone. The shock's worn off slightly, but not much. I can't say I'm incredibly upset about it, though. There's the fact that I love her, that I'll never see her again. I'll live the rest of my life wondering where she is, or if she's even alive. But she'll never have her name in the Reaping balls again. She won't have to witness the poverty and wails of hunger that I can still hear through the thin walls. She'll be as safe as she can be, in this very dangerous world.

Away from the Capitol's iron claw, there's a small spark of hope. But it's so tiny, and Prim is dead, as well as her mother. Katniss is gone. So many horrible things begin to overwhelm me. The spark doesn't go out, not yet, but the icy waters of grief are so thick that I can no longer feel its warmth.

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**A/N: I know this probably sounds both desperate and redundant, but please review! I think I went out on a limb in this chapter and I need people to tell me if it's plausible.**


	8. Chapter 8: Decide

Chapter 8: Decide

Time passes.

Nothing gets worse, but nothing is better, either. I marvel at the mess that each new day brings. It's the same, but a fresh dawn makes everything seem worse.

That's the way life is, I guess. You think you're not so bad off, and then something irreversible happens, reducing your life to little more than a nightmare. Things begin to get better again, only to be changed yet again, in yet another unpleasant way. I suppose it's true enough. Nobody can hope for a perfect life. It reminds me of a phrase I read in a book once:

"I wish none of this had ever happened."

"So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we can decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

I don't know how old the book is, but it's yellowed and falling apart. Many pages are illegible from watermarks, tears, or from some other source. I flipped through it a few times when I was younger, out of curiosity. Then I put it back on the shelf, hastily, so my mother wouldn't see. Then as I got older, I became more interested. The little that I could understand talked about great battles and people with strange names. Also elves, whatever they are – or were. I don't think it's a history book, because of the references to magic, so it must have been read for entertainment. I often wished, when my mother was being particularly vicious, that I could escape into that imaginary world.

I wish that now. My own life is such a disaster; it would be an incredible gift to be granted a reprieve, however short and obviously made-up. It would be different, a change, a reprieve from all the ghosts.

There's a knock on my door at one point, after some indeterminable amount of time goes by. I open the door to see Haymitch. It's surprising, but I'm glad for the company. It turns out that I shouldn't be so excited by his appearance. He's only asking if I've got a drink. I don't.

In actuality, I do, but I don't remember until he's long gone. The reason being is that while he's there, we talk about the matter that's been gnawing on my mind for so long.

"Haymitch…" I say when he asks me about the liquor. "Come walk with me." I grab his arm so he can't refuse, and drag him off around the green.

"What is it?" Impatient, of course.

"I've been thinking." I lower my voice. "About a rebellion." He doesn't reply, so I keep talking. "We need to do something. This can't continue, these Games every year. It has to stop. We—"

I'm interrupted by a loud guffaw. Haymitch is laughing, rolling his eyes at my very serious and very real suggestion. "Let it go." He sees that I'm not going to do any such thing. "Look around you. No way are these people going to rebel. They're oppressed, you know that. Nothing you say is gonna make them stand up to the Capitol, boy. Now if you don't have a drink, I'm off. I've got better things to do than listen to you talk nonsense."

He's gone before I can call him back.

I once read a book about people who changed their world. They made things better, not willing to live with the current circumstances.

"All we can decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

Well, I'd like to do what I want with the time I have. But Haymitch is right – everyone in 12 is scared to death of the Capitol, and I don't blame them. Rebellion isn't in my future.

I wish none of this had ever happened.

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**A/N: Review and, if you know, tell me the book that quote was from! Please review even if you don't know!**


	9. Chapter 9: Empty Space

**A/N: Pretty short, I know, but I couldn't ignore the song... Iridescence, by Linkin Park. You gotta listen to it! Anyways, this chapter is basically the lyrics incorporated into Peeta's situation. Please forgive the lack of dialogue and excitement. Don't forget to review - everyone who does so is cherished!**

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Chapter 9: Empty Space

Dough is comforting. It's warm and soft, giving beneath my hands. I can knead it and lose myself in the endlessly repetitive motions until I feel as though I could float away. It's keeping me sane, allowing me to escape the torrent of guilt that haunts my every step.

Or maybe I'm still not sane. Maybe the kneading and baking are making things worse. Am I slowly lulling myself into madness? Everything around me seems horribly foreign, even familiar things that I've known since I can remember. I might be sinking deeper into my depression, but if the bread allows me to forget, why shouldn't I try? Even a small release is better than nothing.

Eventually, though, the dough's ready to go into the oven. I can't knead it forever. I always return to my too-big, empty house each night, wrapping myself in the silence that echoes with screams. And each night I sleep fitfully, waking with a siren of noise after a few hours, going on and on until I recognize the walls. So many weeks pass this way that my voice becomes hoarse, my yells almost soundless. Not even baking can stop nightmares.

Before the Games, I felt as though I… well, I don't know anymore. I can't remember a time when I wasn't terrified. During the Games, knowing what I'd had to do, I'd felt as though I was standing in a wake of devastation. I was on the edge of something unknown, waiting to fall. It was cataclysmic all around me – death and killing like I'd never seen. I felt as much a child as Prim, crying out for anyone to save me, save me _now_. And for what seemed like the first time, I was alone. Absolutely, utterly alone.

Then she died. Prim died, in a sudden burst of anguished light, blinding me. I feel blind, I really do. I can't see any way around the sheer-sided mountain that's sprung up in my path. I can't see anymore. Nothing but metal bars, keeping me locked inside my grief. It's as if the sky's blown the heavens into stars. Just than a sprinkling of bright lights above me, mirroring my tears.

I tried to save Prim, but I didn't. I tried so hard, only to fail in the end, in the most horrific way. Her grace has been tempered, pulling me off of that edge and into empty space. Her force of gravity speeds my descent. The flight's glorious – terrifying, but glorious. I only fear the bottom, where I know no one will be there to catch me in their arms.


	10. Chapter 10: Stage

Chapter 10: Stage

I'm lost in my grief, overwhelmed by the despair of what's happening to my world. My motions are monotonous, and if I have any true emotions anymore, I can't find them.

But soon I have to wake up and play the part that's expected of me. We all have to take the stage more than once, and I'm no exception. We victors can never escape the spotlight.

"Victory Tour." That's what's written in bright letters along the side of the car that arrives with my prep team and Portia. The words fill me with dread and disgust.

After I'm acceptably scrubbed and polished, I'm relinquished into the hands of my stylist. Portia looks at me with a deep sympathy, and once again, she feels like the mother I never knew.

"I'm sorry," I tell her.

"For what?" she asks.

I wish there were some way to tell her about the impossibility of any rebellion, how the flaming headdress at my interview was pointless. How I've been forced to give up, and how I no longer have the energy to keep going. But I can't voice that here. "I – never mind," I say. She gives me an odd look and then hands me my outfit.

It's a blue-green turtleneck shirt with pleated black pants. Sturdy boots and a knit cap. A jacket goes over the shirt, and I feel too warm with the goose-down padding.

"Smile," Portia commands. I do my best and she shakes her head. "That's not it. You look like a snarling dog. Come on, it's a winter day, the snow is falling softly from a nice blanket of fluffy gray clouds…" She continues like this until I've relaxed some. "You'll do," she says, and then Effie shoves me out the door.

Portia was understating things. Lightly falling snow? I've been forced into a blizzard. Fluffy gray clouds? It's like an inky pit over my head. Yet I somehow fix my smile in place and stumble my way toward the depot.

On the train, I stare out a window as the snow vanishes and is replaced by endless fields of grain. "District 11?" I ask, and Haymitch nods.

The speech is horrible. I'm unusually lacking in fluidity, and can only stammer out my prepared words with the gazes of the dead tributes' families burning holes in me. Thresh's grandmother appears despondent, while his sister glares fiercely at me the entire time. If looks could kill, I'd be dead a thousand times. I just might prefer that to the sight of Rue's family.

Her little sisters watch me unwaveringly. I manage to avoid their eyes until the last sentence, which upends my already nonexistent concentration. "… I'll never forget the…" I cough, trying to regain my voice. "The help she gave me…" I step back, unable to continue. The microphone cuts off, and I try to shield myself from what I've done.

Needless to say, the entire tour is horrible. There is one long act, too many scenes in which I am the star actor. My performance seems to matter little to the audience. Some of the crowds are weary and obviously want to leave. Others are focused on me, but with murder in their eyes. But a few – mainly 4, 7, and 8 – look up at where I stand with something akin to hope.

By the time I get back to 12, almost two weeks later, I'm a wreck. I nearly collapse when I give my speech to my own district, where there are no families of the dead, but merely an empty platform. With her "cousins" and immediate family on the run, nobody represents Prim. I want to cry from relief when the curtain falls, shielding me from my self-wrought damage.

I sink back into my stupor, glad that the cameras are gone again. Nothing to do now but wait for the Quell, the inevitable horror that's looming ever closer. If I weren't the youngest victor, I'd be driven to drink like Haymitch.

One thing haunts me more than the others now: the hopeful look in some districts' eyes. They see me as the rebel, their symbol, someone to put on a banner. They don't know that I've been broken.

They don't know that they're waiting for a rebellion that will never come.


	11. Chapter 11: A Change

Chapter 11: A Change

The phone rings and I pick it up with a weary "Hello?"

"Mr. Mellark?" I don't know this Capitol voice.

"That's me. Who is this?"

"I would like to inform you that this evening at six o'clock, there will be a program on television that is required viewing for all of Panem. Thank you."

The phone goes dead without answering my question, and I stand there for a moment with a confusion that's rare, given my brain-dead state. What's going on? I suppose I'll never know unless I follow the instructions.

I sit resignedly in front of the television, wondering what could possibly be required viewing at this time of year. The Games aren't for another month and as far as I know, nothing has happened that's important enough to make the districts watch.

"As you know, and I'm sure are excited for, this year we'll be celebrating our seventy-fifth Hunger Games! That means that once again, we'll have a Quarter Quell!" Caesar Flickerman's face and hair, still powder blue, is grinning on my screen. I glower as the cameras cut to President Snow with a box full of yellowed envelopes, his puffy lips and snake eyes as repulsive as ever. Instantly, I know what's going on. The reading of the card. This is when I'll find out what miserable twist the Games will take for my first year as a mentor.

The president takes an envelope marked 75 and opens it, reading the old card inside without hesitation:

"As a reminder to the districts that none of their officials made any attempts to stop the rebels, this year's tributes will be reaped from standard-age relatives of the mayors of each district."

I'm not sure what he means at first. Standard-age must be 12- to 18-year-olds, just like every other year. Relatives of the mayor, though… only one name comes to mind. Madge Undersee. She's in my year at school, the mayor's daughter. If anyone's likely to be Reaped, she is.

For a brief moment, I long to bury my face in my hands and sink into the stupor that I've lived in for so long. But the announcement of the probable death of my classmate has shocked me back to the world of the sentient. I'm alert like I haven't been in months, ever since Thom told me that I was alone. As I think of how I must have appeared lately, I have to wonder at what I've become. I've as good as turned to drink like Haymitch, but I know I don't have that excuse. The only one to blame for my apathetic state is myself.

I get up and find the only mirror in my entire house, over the bathroom sink. I take a real look at myself for the first time in who knows how long. I've got deep purple crescents under my eyes, so dark that they're beginning to look like very bad bruises. My actual eyes are dead looking, bloodshot, and stare out from my sunken face so that I resemble a skeleton.

Everything about me screams neglect, hurt, poverty. It's ironic since I never looked like this before the Games, but now that I'm among the wealthiest in the district, I appear to be one of the most unfortunate.

This sparks another thought. In 12, at least, a person's station in life is largely based on his or her complexion. Those with blonde hair and blue eyes, like me, are more privileged than those with dark hair and gray eyes, like… her.

It seems so incredibly unfair that someone can have their future picked out for them before they have a chance to change it. I guess in the back of my mind I've always known it was wrong, but I'd never given it much thought. Why should I complain, after all? I'm one of the lucky few that are on the higher end of this demented scale.

Now I know. I know that if there's going to be a change, whether it's about the Games or discrimination, it's got to start soon. People have waited too long for things to just happen instead of taking matters into their own hands. It makes me wonder if, had they done something earlier, things might be different now.

They already have done something, I realize. And they're the ones responsible for my current situation, the situation of everyone in the Districts. The Dark Days failed epically, resulting in further punishment for many people who hadn't done anything in the rebellion at all.

I think, knowing what my ancestors have done and knowing how they failed, I can make some sort of change. Maybe just a small one, but a little is better than none. With any luck, someone else will finish what I know I've got to start.

And I really do have to start, and soon, because things are only going to get worse. Unless someone cares, nothing's going to get better. Nothing will change. So I'll just go ahead and start the ball rolling.

I know now that while I can't fully rebel, while I'll probably mentor likely doomed kids for years to come, the least I can do is try to help them. I owe it to the citizens of Twelve to do my best to bring their children home.

Some tiny part of me calls out that, really, I'm barely more than a child myself. But that seems like too insignificant a detail to waste my time on. If the Career Districts can do it – where there's a winner almost every year – if they can train tributes to return home victorious, then I can do it, too.

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**A/N: Gah, I'm _so_ sorry for the delay. Or maybe I'm just overreacting and you guys didn't have too much of a wait, but either way, here's your chapter!**

**Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!... almost. There are a few references to Civil Rights in here, as well as some awesomeness by Dr. Seuss:**

**The Lorax said nothing, just gave me a glance.**

**Just gave me a very sad, sad, backward glance**

**As he lifted himself by the seat of his pants.**

**And I'll never forget the grim look on his face**

**As he heisted himself and took leave of this place**

**Through a hole in the smog without leaving a trace.**

**And all that the Lorax left here in the mess**

**Was a small pile of rocks with one word:**

**UNLESS.**

**Well, whatever that meant, I just couldn't guess.**

**That was long, long ago, and each day since that day,**

**I've worried and worried and worried away.**

**Through the years, while my buildings have fallen apart,**

**I've worried about if with all of my heart.**

**But now, says the Onceler, Now that _you're_ here,**

**The word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear.**

**UNLESS someone like you cares a whole awful lot,**

**Nothing is going to get better. It's not.**

**So, Catch! Calls the Onceler. He lets something fall.**

**It's a Truffula seed. It's the last one of all.**

**You're in charge of the last of the Truffula seeds,**

**And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs.**

**Plant a new Truffula, treat it with care.**

**Give it fresh water. Feed it clean air.**

**Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack,**

**Then the Lorax**

**And all of his friends**

**May come back.**

**-So, that was the awesomeness. I highly encourage everyone to read the beginning of the poem, since I only typed the end (from memory).**

**Hope you liked it! And I don't want to sound desperate, but PLEASE... review?  
**


	12. Chapter 12: The Worst Thing

**A/N: Here is the first QQ chapter! Yay!**

**Review reply to Katniss_The_Mockingjay: Yes, I know exactly how you feel. I think I worked myself into a corner on this, making Peeta so depressed, and then I had no idea how to lighten him up. All I can say is, "shit's gonna get real" (lilithfaire's review). I'm super sorry about the depression stuff. Now Peeta's got something to live for, so hopefully the pace will pick up!**

**Also, thanks to everybody who's favorited and reviewed so far!**

**I figured I'd put this in here, and just say that it goes for everything:**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games. That's Suzanne Collins you're looking for.**

**I feel like this is scripted: Please review!**

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Chapter 12: The Worst Thing

Reaping day is sweltering. The sun beats down on the abnormally – blissfully – small pens of children waiting to see if they will die. There's not a breath of wind, and as Mayor Undersee reads the Treaty of Treason, there is no other sound.

The mayor's paler than I've ever seen him, and his voice is unsteady. When he calls my name, I rise, though Haymitch misses his cue. I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the Reaping subjects.

There are eight girls. Four are twelve, one is fourteen, and two are fifteen. Madge is the only sixteen-year-old. There are only three boys. One is twelve and two are thirteen. They are all blonde and they all wear identical masks of terror.

"Ladies first!" pipes Effie, who's shown up again for the Quarter Quell. She prances over to the ball holding the girls' names and plucks out a slip. "Madge Undersee!" she reads.

I do my best to look encouraging as Madge steps onto the stage, just as Prim did last year. I'm not sure that I succeed, but in any case, she isn't crying. She just takes deep, even breaths, as though trying to stay conscious.

Now Effie is reaching for a boy's slip. The silence seems to stretch out forever before she finally calls, "Fritz Undersee!"

I hadn't realized that the worst part about this year's Games isn't the fact that the contestants thought they'd never be Reaped. It's that they're all family. "Relatives of the mayor." Fritz, one of the thirteen-year-olds, has silent tears running down his face. He shakes hands with Madge and they're escorted into the Justice Building, still grasping each other's fingers like lifelines. Perhaps they are.

The next hour is spent pacing in front of the train station. I can only imagine the heart-wrenching good-byes going on in the rooms with red-velvet couches and finery that you wish you'd never seen. When Madge and Fritz emerge, it's apparent that they've both been crying. I'd like to reassure them, but for one thing, it's against the rules. For another, if I told them it would be okay, I would be lying. So I bite my tongue and follow them onto the train.

They're shown to their rooms by the assistants that every tribute train includes. I sit in the dining car with Haymitch, and finally I can't take the silence anymore. "Could they win?" I ask in a low voice.

Haymitch looks up from his liquor bottle. "It's not a question of if they can _win_," he says slowly, "so much as when they'll die."

"That's not an answer," I snap at him. "You can't act like they don't have a chance!"

He takes a swig and answers leisurely. "I'm not gonna lie to them. I won't tell them they're not gonna live just to make them feel better."

"But they _will live_! They'll come home! Haymitch, if you tell them they're going to die—"

The door bangs open, revealing Madge and Fritz standing in the hall. They're both still in their Reaping outfits. Fritz looks terrified, and Madge just looks angry. I didn't think I'd been shouting.

Effie, behind them, has her usual smile plastered over her face. Her hair is still as pink as ever. Some things, I've learned, will never change.

Haymitch and I stand automatically, and after shooting me a look that's equal parts pain, sorrow, and anger, he stalks off. There's an awkward silence until I say, "Anybody hungry?"

The meal, while fancy, is made extremely uncomfortable by the fact that nobody's eating. Effie does her bit – which I'm starting to think is scripted – by trying several times to start up a conversation that I don't think even she's interested in having. It all sounds so familiar, just like this time last year. Only there was a different blue-eyed girl across the table then.

"Do you want to be trained together? Or separately?" I finally say, and Madge answers immediately.

"Separately." Fritz looks up in horror and I, too, am confused. But she just repeats, more softly: "Separately."

It's time to watch the other Reapings, to watch twenty-two more kids who never thought they'd die be shipped off to the Capitol in what's basically a giant coffin puffing along the tracks.

There's a slim boy named Orb Hetair of fourteen with light brown hair and his cousin Elegance Hetair – seventeen years old – with shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes from District 1. Though they're Careers, they seem unenthusiastic. It's an unusual thing to see, coming from such a prestigious place.

District 2's tributes are hauntingly familiar. The boy, a stocky eighteen-year-old with dark coloring named Lazarus Payya, bears a strong resemblance to Cato. The female tribute is an angelic twelve-year-old girl named Elvorix. She's Lazarus's sister. With her short blonde ringlets and tiny stature, there's no question as to who she reminds me of. Thankfully, her eyes are green.

From District 3, there are two cousins. Fuze Negolin is fifteen years old, with curly black hair and green eyes. As she ascends to the stage, you can see her trying not to cry. Her District partner is Cordin Titrus, aged fourteen years.

There's a freckled sixteen-year-old girl named Marlene Orman with blue eyes and brown hair to her waist from District 4, along with her brother Naylor, who's seventeen with brown hair and gray eyes. Their faces are almost impassive as they stand beside each other, but they can't quite hide their despair.

District 5's tributes are even worse – twins. Two fourteen-year-olds named Ahna and Bridger Nielson. They both have the same dark brown hair and eyes, but Bridger is much taller than his sister. They're both extremely pale as they clutch each other on stage, making no attempt to stay calm.

From District 6, there are more siblings. Lynna Rassorvani is fifteen years old, with light brown hair halfway down her back and blue eyes. Her District partner is Nathaniel Rassorvani, a seventeen-year-old with the same coloring as his sister.

There's a blonde girl named Twig Keskow of seventeen with blue eyes and her cousin, Peter Keskow, from District 7. He's eighteen years old with glasses and brown eyes, and his face is a serene mask.

District 8's tributes are cousins once again. The boy is named Frieze Tussah, and he's fourteen years old with burly black hair and green eyes. Despite his young age, he looks like a fighter. The girl, Paisley Tussah, is sixteen, with brown hair and gray eyes.

From District 9, there are two cousins named Rachelle and Key Ehmy. They're both very good looking, though in different ways. Key, a fifteen-year-old, has black hair and eyes and olive-toned skin. He's what I've heard described as "darkly handsome." Rachelle is eighteen, with waist-length brown hair, dark chocolate eyes, and a way of walking that emphasizes her beauty.

There's a sixteen-year-old boy named Alyx Hurston with brown hair and eyes from District 10. His sister is named Ella, and she has chin-length brown hair. She's stockier than Alyx but he reacts better to hearing his name than she does.

District 11's tributes are very similar to each other. There's Zale Tanager, a sixteen-year-old boy with the dark skin, hair, and eyes that are unique to his District. He's thin but still muscular. His cousin, Finch Tanager, is also Reaped. She's seventeen years old and has the same coloring as Zale, but she's much smaller.

And then, of course, we see Madge and Fritz. I don't want to watch this particular bit, so I don't. I look away from the screen and see Madge watching me. It's not hard to read her expression, which isn't despairing, just searching. Puzzled.

Fritz leaves first, and then it's just Madge and me, since Effie's gone to check some aspect of the schedule.

"Why separately?" I ask.

"I don't want to see him," she tells me. "I don't want to look at him and have him die later. If I stay away… will it be easier?" Now I see the desperation.

I think for a while before answering. "No," I finally say. "I don't think so. It's better to say good-bye than to let him die alone."

There's a hand on my shoulder. I've been staring at the floor, and now I see that Madge is only a few feet away. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears and sympathy. "Peeta, I just want to say…" she hesitates. "Only one of us can live. Please pick Fritz."

I shake my head vigorously. "No. No, I won't do that. I'll help both of you equally. I'm not giving one of you a better chance than the other."

"_Please_," she begs. "What if it comes down to just the two of us? Like…" She doesn't need to continue. I'm feeling perilously close to tears myself, and take her hand.

"It won't, Madge. I promise it won't."

That's got to be the worst thing I could say, because it implies that one of them will die. And one of them will, but I wish I didn't have to be the one to point it out.

She sits next to me and we stay there for a while. She leans her head on my shoulder. I'm glad she's here, glad that she's able to comfort me. It's strange that somehow we're both making the other feel better, yet we're completely at odds.

Eventually the train begins to slow and we can hear the screaming Capitol crowds. Madge stands and I see that her tears have fallen. She wipes her face on her sleeve and goes to the window, peering out at the freakish citizens of the last place we want to be. Anywhere else would be better.

Fritz rejoins us, his face wet as well. Then Effie's here with a clipboard and a smile. Haymitch staggers up and looks at me meaningfully. I don't think he saw anything, but even if he did, there was nothing to see. I'm allowed to be kind on the last week of someone's life, right?

My eyes meet Madge's over Fritz's head and I see her request still echoing. _Please pick Fritz._ I can't do that. I can't bring myself to abandon her in the arena. _What if it comes down to just the two of us? _But as much as it pains me to admit it, there's almost no chance that they'll be the last two left. Of course, there was almost no chance that I'd be alone with Prim, either.

But I won't do this. I will not leave Madge to fend for herself if there's any way I can help. I repeat what I said earlier, after her desperate _what if_.

"I promise."

I just hope that I'm right, and they're not up against each other. Because I don't think I'll be able to forgive myself if I make one more person die.


	13. Chapter 13: Of Ceremonies and Messages

**A/N: Is anyone completely, absolutely opposed to a Madge/Peeta pairing?**

**It won't be permanent, I promise. I'm just asking.**

**Let me know what you think!**

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Chapter 13: Of Ceremonies and Messages

The last thing I say to my tributes before they're carted off to the Remake Center? "Be good." It's not the best advice, but it works. Hopefully they won't fight their stylists too much.

It seems that they haven't. I sit in the achingly familiar room on the twelfth floor of the Training Center and watch as the screens light up. As usual, District 1 pulls off the silver-paint-covered-kids without a hitch. District 2 is classically glittery. From there, the costumes go downhill. There are lab coats and animal suits and even a pair of unidentifiable machines from 9. But I know that Cinna and Portia are still working for 12, because Madge and Fritz make the crowd go silent, and then begin screaming louder than ever.

They've continued the fire theme from last year, except it's quite different. This time, instead of actual flames, I think there must be some sort of light on the floor of the chariot. Madge and Fritz are wearing black and are lit from below. It gives them the appearance of candles. They have headdresses, just like before; only these are inlaid with some sort of gold jewel that catches the light perfectly. I'm not exaggerating when I say that they shine.

The only bad part is President Snow's speech. It's a bit more pointed than I'd like, with a lot of veiled references to uprising and how this Quell will prevent anything that might happen. I can't help feeling that it's mostly directed at me. After all, I'm the most recent Victor. Everybody else has probably learned not to cause trouble.

Too bad for Snow that I've got nothing left to lose.

Afterwards, I find myself alone with Effie, who's obsessed with the schedule, as always. She's muttering under her breath and tapping her clipboard with a pen. I catch phrases like "absolutely no time," "they expect me to fit that in," and "how on earth is this going to _WORK?"_

That last one isn't muttered, it's shouted. Effie slams down her clipboard and takes a long draught of coffee, then looks up to see me watching her. "What?"

I cough. "You didn't seem to have this much trouble last year."

"Well, that was because last year you were a tribute. You were barely ever around. Now you'll be seeing a lot more of me."

Stifling a shudder, I go for a smile. "What's the problem?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she says, suddenly closed off. She snatches up her coffee mug, pen, and clipboard, zipping out of the room before I can say anything else.

A sheet of paper flutters to the table, fallen from her enormous pile. Without thinking, I slide it closer.

_District 8 memo:_

_Re—_

"Why, thank you, Peeta. I'll take that."

I jerk around. Effie's standing behind me, her eyes unusually intense. Without reading the rest, I wordlessly I hand her the page, and she stalks from the room again.

Madge and Fritz show up for dinner with their stylists. I smile at Portia, who returns the favor, but halfheartedly. Cinna doesn't even look at me. Just sits wearily in his chair next to Madge.

Haymitch shows up halfway through the meal, trailing a skittish Effie. With a not-so-drunk grin, my former mentor sits down, leaving the only empty seat right beside me. Avoiding my eyes, Effie takes it.

"So, I really liked this year's costumes," I say, not knowing how else to break the silence.

"T-they were better than I'd thought they'd be," Fritz says quietly. I'm surprised because it's the first I've heard out of him, and I'd assumed he wasn't one to voice his opinions.

"What inspired them?" I ask, directing my question to the two stylists.

"It was candles this time," Cinna says, meeting my eyes. "Around the time of the Victory Tour. In a dark room, they're really quite amazing."

"Yes," agrees Portia. "I'm not sure we quite captured the flickers, though. There was…" And then the conversation takes off into a discussion between two experts, and I can't understand anything but the "it's" and "the's".

We all crowd into the television room to watch the recap of the opening ceremonies, and I see that, once again, District 12 has secured more than their fair share of screen time. Though every face is shown, Madge and Fritz are most often the focus.

"You two should consider designing the President's wardrobe," I joke to Portia, though there's really nothing funny about it. She takes my words seriously.

"We've been offered the position, actually, but we both turned it down. It's much more, ah, _interesting_ to work for the Games."

Well, this is news to me. Because if I've noticed one thing about both stylists, it's that they're hurt by each death as much as I am. And unless Portia has a very odd definition of interesting – which I'm sure she doesn't – then that's not the reason she chose to stay. But I let it pass.

Portia and Cinna leave immediately after the ceremony and Effie doesn't hesitate to follow them. Haymitch left the room before the fifth chariot showed and is probably unconscious by now. Fritz disappears, claiming to be tired. Once again, I'm alone with Madge. She realizes this and heads for the door, but for some reason I call her back.

"Want to see something nice?" I don't know if _nice_ is the right word, but it does the trick.

"Sure," she says, pausing with one hand on the doorframe.

"Come on." I lead her through the rooms and find the door to the roof unlocked, just as I'd hoped. We climb the stairs and are assaulted by the chilly wind that whips Madge's hair around like crazy.

"Is it safe?" she asks when I move towards the edge.

"Yeah, there's a force field past the railing," I assure her, and she follows carefully. I see how she eyes the sheer drop and realize she's afraid of heights. In the arena, this could be a real problem.

"It's beautiful," Madge states tonelessly. She stares down at the brightly lit streets of the city and I'm faintly surprised to see a hardness in her expression. She's usually so mild. Right now, though, I can empathize with her. What she sees – what we both see – is a city with everything District 12 will never have, and she can only enjoy it when she's so terrified that nothing is enjoyable.

"I thought you might like to get away from the others for a while."

"You're right, I do," she sighs. "Thank you, Peeta."

"My pleasure." As I speak the words, I realize that I really do want to please Madge. Maybe it's the fact that she'll likely be dead in a week, or maybe she's got that rare quality that makes people do things for her. But I can't help feeling that it's something more.

She moves to the railing slowly, but leans on it once she's there. She looks at me with sad eyes. "Is there any way to change what's happening?"

I know she means these Games, the horror of it all. I can't bring myself to give her an honest answer. "Maybe someday," I tell her.

She leans farther over the railing, and I know there's something she wants to say, but she can't because of the cameras. "I'll show you the garden. The wind's loud but there are a lot of chimes."

Her face lights up and she follows me to the other side of the roof. Once in the garden, she visibly relaxes. We sit on one of the stone benches and I wait for her to speak.

"I… When I – Before the Games," she says, choosing her words carefully, "I sat with Katniss at school. We were friends, I guess. We didn't really talk but it was nice. And then Prim was Reaped." Madge's face darkens with inexpressible sorrow.

"It was like the world flipped. I was the strong one suddenly, the one who had to help her. Help Katniss – you can imagine how that was. She would go hunting for so long that I thought she'd finally run away, as she'd talked about. But then she'd show up the next day, tired and depressed. Still here."

She looks at me with desperation. "I didn't know what to think. I still don't. She's got to be happier out there, wherever she is – if she'll ever be happy again – but it's so horrible to remember her eyes the last time I saw her. You know that she came to see me after Prim was gone? She climbed in my window."

I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear what I've done, but I suppose I had it coming.

"She didn't stay. She just wanted me to do something – to tell you something."

"Katniss… wanted… to tell _me_ something?"

"Yes." Madge avoids my eyes. "She said to tell you thanks for the bread. That she hopes you enjoy your life, because—" She breaks off and presses her hand to her mouth, holding in sobs. After a pause, she continues. Her voice is almost inaudible with the wind and musical chimes.

"…that you enjoy your life, because anything that was worth her s-sister shouldn't go t-to waste."

I watch the plants sway in the wind with intense concentration, trying to work through what I've just heard. She hates me, just as I've thought all along. Of course, she does. Anyone would, in this situation.

So why do I feel like I'm falling from the roof?


	14. Chapter 14: They Just Die

**A/N: Yes, this is very short, and I'm sorry about that. But I like it! I like it a lot!**

**Please tell me what you think!  
**

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Chapter 14: They Just Die

Maybe, someday in the future, I'll be able to look back on the mess that is my life and smile at how young I was. Maybe everything will turn out okay. Maybe none of this will matter in the end – this lonely night on the roof of a tomb will vanish into memories filled with the dust of long-forgotten years.

And maybe not.

Maybe I'll look back on my life and curse the choices I've made. Maybe I'll die a horrible death, something everyone shudders at and says, "I'm so glad that wasn't me." Maybe the hurt of this freezing darkness will never thaw. Maybe it will be frozen forever in my thoughts so that, when the breath leaves my lungs, the bright lights of a blind city will be the last things that I see.

However the future turns out, the only thing I can focus on now is the disappointment that I feel. After everything that's happened, I couldn't help but hang on to the only thing I could still envision happening: fulfilling a promise. I owe it to Prim – and to Katniss, too, in a way.

"Please… you and my sister… make this count."

"Well, Prim," I want to say, "Your sister's not making my job possible right now. I wish I could do this for you, but I can't."

This unspoken confession of inability is enough to make me slump over on the bench next to Madge. She stiffens and I hear that she's crying, just like me, when she speaks. "Peeta, I – I'm so sorry," she says. "I don't want to hurt you."

I look up, glad that the tears aren't too noticeable on this, the darkest of nights. "Why are _you_ sorry?" I ask incredulously, and my voice doesn't sound as broken as it rightly should. "It was just a message that you passed on to me. They're not your words."

"Yes, but – but I didn't want to tell you. They're not my words, but they're so horrible! Katniss had no right to say that."

She's angry now, I can tell. She's not being logical. "Madge, she had every right. I killed her s—"

"Don't you say that! You didn't, you didn't! It was nobody's fault! That's the way these Games are, there's nothing – to do, people – people just – die—"

And then she breaks down, and it's like nothing in the world will ever make her stop sobbing. She looks so crushed and when I move closer to her and put my arm around her shoulders, it feels perfectly natural.

Madge leans into me and I can feel her heartbeat. It's such a new feeling – like I need her there or I'll crumble away, and I think she needs me, too, to save herself from drowning in some great ocean of misery. I wonder how I ever thought that I was the person hurt most by Prim's death? Because Madge has been wounded at least as deeply as me.

Eventually she calms enough to talk again.

"You know why I apologized? Why I didn't want to hurt you?"

I shake my head.

She looks up at me with bright, sad blue eyes the color of water and the summer sky and candy and she says, "Because I love you."


	15. Chapter 15: Confused, Very

Chapter 15: Confused, Very

"You – what?" Maybe it's not what she wants to hear, and maybe it's rude, but Madge's announcement throws me so completely that I'm having difficulty wrapping my mind around it. "What?"

She doesn't answer immediately, just looks out across the Capitol for a few moments, tears still falling. "I love you, Peeta," she repeats softly.

I don't know what to say. I always thought it was Katniss's friend, Gale, who held Madge's heart, and that's why the friendship between the two girls was so odd to me, because it was obvious that Gale loved Katniss. And now I realize that it wasn't Gale, it was… me.

Girls are so confusing.

"I, uh, I don't…" is my inarticulate response.

Madge stands suddenly, and I know she's about to head back inside, and I just can't stand to leave it like this, with so much unsaid. It'll hurt, but we've both been hurt before. And some things need to be spoken aloud. So I grab her wrist and she turns halfway, still not looking at me.

"What about Gale?" It's the first thing that crosses my lips, and I can't take the words back.

Surprise flits over her features. "Gale? He's gone." Underneath the surprise, I can sense her hurt and sadness at his leaving, and I think that maybe she did love him, a little bit.

"Look, Madge, I'm really sorry, but…" but what? What can I say? "But Katniss—"

"Katniss is gone, too." She leans forward. "She's gone. Peeta, I know you love her. I _know_. But she's not going to come back, and I also know that she loves Gale. She didn't know it, but now she does – because she thinks you killed Prim."

"I did kill—"

"No! No, you didn't, okay? You and Katniss always think that everything's your fault, and sometimes things just happen, Peeta! Sometimes there's nothing you can do!"

She's starting to make sense, and there's the sweetest sense of relief washing through me. It's not my fault? I'm not responsible for Prim's death? It's as though an enormous weight has been lifted off my shoulders, and I didn't even know it was there until it was gone.

"You really think so?"

"I _know_ so. Don't go blaming yourself for stuff beyond your control."

And now that that's worked out, I'm left to sort through Madge's very unexpected confession of love. How was I supposed to anticipate that? And what am I supposed to say? _What am I supposed to say?_

Madge speaks first, though.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

She turns away again, starts walking back to the door, and I jump up and walk beside her. We're silent until we reach her room, where she waits in the doorway for me to speak.

"Madge, I – I just don't know." She keeps waiting. "Right now, it's all too complicated. But if you win, then… maybe. Someday, maybe."

She inclines her head in what might be a nod, and turns around. But not before I catch the trace of one more crystalline tear sparkling on her cheek.

The door closes, and my "I'm sorry" sounds cold and harsh in the empty hallway. Because, really, "Someday, maybe" is just a fancy way to say "no." _Someday_ might never come, and _maybe_ might never resolve into a solid answer.

This hall isn't as empty as I thought. Just seconds after the door to Madge's room shuts, I hear a sound behind me, and Fritz steps out of the shadows and into the light of the chandelier.

He doesn't speak, just fixes his blue eyes, so like his cousin's, on me as he crosses to his own quarters. His door bangs shut as well, and I hurry to my room as though there's a horde of mutts on my heels.

Just as I'm reaching for the doorknob, Haymitch moves closer, making me jump about a foot in the air. I hadn't even noticed him, lurking in the dark corner with his bottle of liquor.

"You're a lucky one, boy," he slurs with a gleam in his eye. "You could do a lot worse, you know that?"

"Yeah. I think I've got it," I tell him.

"You'll live a hundred years and not deserve her," he says as he totters away.

"I _know_," I repeat, thoroughly fed up with my life.

"No," Haymitch chuckles gleefully, slopping the spirits down his front. I can smell them from here. "No, you don't. You've got no idea."

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**A/N: There. See, I told you it wasn't permanent! I just had to write some romance. So I did.**

**Kinda funny how everyone's popping out at Breadboy on the way to his room.**

**So, good or bad? Please let me know, because that review button down there is getting awfully lonely. And we're just 8 reviews away from the total reviews for My Dreams Smell of Roses! (If I recall, that only had 14 actual chapters. So we're one over! Yay!)**

**Anyways, please review, and the next chapter will be longer!**


	16. Chapter 16: What Do You Want?

**A/N: I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but just to be on the safe side:**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Peeta, Madge, Prim, Katniss, Plutarch, Haymitch, Chaff, Effie, Foxface, Rue, Cato, Caesar Flickerman, Claudius Templesmith, or Snow.**

**I DO own Feli, Appo, Fritz, and all the other tributes in the 75th. Except Madge, whom I believe is mentioned in the "don't own" list.**

**Let's just say that that goes for every chapter.**

**And now, for the _chapter_. By the way, we've only gotten one review on the last chapter, so I'd appreciate it if we pass 40 on this one. We only need 7 more. Please, guys! We've already got 2 more chapters, why not more reviews?**

**Please.**

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Chapter 16: What Do You Want?

In the morning, everything is foggy. The usual complicated breakfast is dry in my mouth, tasteless, because I know I'm not the only one who was up half the night with a lot of regrets.

And she comes in, and her cousin a few steps behind her, and I avoid her eyes. Effie and Haymitch show up with schedules and, though our escort pretends otherwise, lots and lots of liquor.

I wait for Haymitch to speak, to tell Madge and Fritz what's on the agenda. Or maybe that's Effie's job. In any case, I'm expecting one of them to talk first. But they're all looking at me, and then I remember that I'm the mentor now. Clearing my throat, I address my napkin.

"So, today's the first day of training." Like they needed to hear that. "You'll want to be open to alliances, but not too friendly. And try to learn something new. Don't just stay with what you know; you can do that in your individual session with the Gamemakers." This reminds me that I don't know what skills either of my tributes possess. At my request, Madge exits, leaving me with Fritz.

"So. Do you know how to use any weapons, plants, maybe some tracking…?"

Fritz shakes his head.

"Can you start a fire?"

"No."

Well, it's not as though this is unexpected. Myself included, the merchants' children rarely know many survival skills. In my alliance with Rue, she was the one who really kept us alive. For as long as any of us lived, anyways.

"Okay," I tell Fritz. "Try to start with fires, because you're probably going to need one at some point. Make sure to build up a decent amount of confidence in that area. And then go for some weapons practice. Knives are a good choice, or maybe an axe." Fritz is nodding, his eyes wide, scared, and somewhat excited. I know the feeling. "After that, try hunting. Snares can be complicated, but if you think you can puzzle them out, go for it. Take a look at the bows and arrows, too. Food is what you need if you're going to win."

With that said, it's Madge's turn. She watches me carefully and gives a little start when I begin speaking.

"Do you know how to start a fire?"

She shakes her head.

"You'll want to try that out first. It's a valuable skill. How about weapons?"

"A little bit with knives," she tells me.

"Okay, great. Try to improve a little, but like I said before, don't reveal how much you know right away. Go for some hunting after that… do you know anything about snares?"

Another "no."

"Make sure to start in on anything that could help you get food."

Effie enters, announcing that it's nearly ten o'clock and that if Madge and Fritz don't want to be late, they'd better get down to the training area. Being the escort, she escorts them to their destination, and Haymitch and I leave in search of sponsors.

Since this is my first year as mentor, Haymitch has to show me the ropes. I never really gave much thought before to the process of getting sponsors and sending gifts in silver parachutes. I just noticed that 12's tributes rarely seemed to have any part in it.

It turns out that it's all very informal. There's a vague organization to the twelve tables lined up in the middle of the room, but most are unoccupied, the seats vacant. The mentors and what must be most of the victors in Panem are having what looks like a raucous party in full swing. I see a bar and discover exactly how easy it must have been for Haymitch to drink himself into oblivion.

Prominent and pristine are the large televisions mounted on the walls. I start to feel sick. I'll be spending the next few weeks in here, watching Madge or Fritz – or Madge _and_ Fritz – die on these screens. Is really it necessary to take an orientation tour?

"So, this is the famous Mellark?"

It's a middle-aged man with the dark skin that means he's from District 11. From his age, I know I haven't been alive for his Games, but he seems vaguely familiar.

"This'd be him," Haymitch says. "Got a drink?"

"Not if you ain't payin' for it," the man slurs. "And I'm assuming that you ain't." He turns to me and holds out his hand. "The name's Chaff," he says, inclining his head. "Congrats on the win."

"Thanks," I reply, unable to entirely keep the sarcasm from my voice. "What year were you?"

"Twenty-third," Chaff tells me. He focuses on something over my shoulder and yells, "Oi! You – no! Don't—!" He shoves me aside and Haymitch follows him off to who knows where.

"Aha! Mellark! Just the man I was looking for," says another voice behind me. I turn and see a large, meaty man grinning at me. He's not a Victor, though. I can tell – he has that Capitol look of security and ease. "Plutarch Heavensbee, Gamemaker," he introduces himself in a drunken warble.

I swallow down my loathing. "Nice to meet you," I say shortly.

"C'mon. Something that you gotta see," he insists, dragging me through the crowd of warm bodies and alcoholic stench. Into a side room that nobody notices. Plutarch turns to me once inside. I see that this is more of a closet, with mops and buckets and packages of napkins. It's big, though, like a long hallway leading to nowhere.

"What are you…?"

"Listen up, because I'm only going to say this once." All traces of drunkenness have vanished, and he's speaking in a hushed, anxious tone. "I've heard you've been pretty beat up over that girl's death."

What's going on? A Gamemaker – he must know how much I hate him – he wants to talk about Prim with me? About _Prim_? What's he been drinking? "I don't think—"

"_Listen_. You want to make sure it doesn't happen again? You want it all to end? You want to keep your girl alive this year?"

Madge. He means Madge. Do I want Madge to live, that's what he's asking. Confused, I nod.

"Then come with me." Plutarch shoves aside a huge shelving unit, the metal scraping on the floor. I jerk at the sound but the cacophony outside is so loud that I'm sure no one heard. Besides, I'm more interested in what's been revealed. Another door, painted gray like the wall, with no knob but a groove cut into its surface. Plutarch opens it and shows the dark, tunnel-like abyss within. He waits.

"Are you coming?" he asks.

I think about it. _You want it all to end?_ Want what to end? The only answer I can think of is the Games. And my response to that is obvious. Yes. So do I come? I'm still not sure. This is a Gamemaker. He's killed kids for who knows how long, and he's offering to save one now. Why this year? Why me? And why not Prim? So many questions, and really only one way to find an answer.

Watching him carefully, I move past the man with no heart and step into the unknown, my steps echoing off unseen walls.


	17. Chapter 17: The Flaw in the Plan

**A/N: Here you go, and I am giving you what you asked for. Yes, there is a chapter called "The Flaw in the Plan" in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix... I think. Whatever.**

**Hunger Games belongs to SuCo, but Fritz belongs to me, 'cuz he's so awesome that only I could have dreamed him up. I'm loving him.**

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Chapter 17: The Flaw in the Plan

I can't see anything, not even my hand in front of my face. Plutarch follows me into the tunnel – or maybe it's going to drop off suddenly, sending me plummeting to my death – and shuts the door with a bang. I hear a lock click. I'm about to speak, to ask what he's doing, when the lights come on.

There's no drop-off, but no end that I can see, either. Spotless white walls, fluorescent lights that make me blink, new tunnels branching off at even intervals, and not a spot of color in the entire place. It looks too bleached. Too Capitol.

Plutarch sets off down the corridor and takes a left turn after several yards. I try to remember that, since he's liable to leave me down here. A right turn, which I also store away in my mind. "What is this place?" I ask.

"It's a concatenation of underpasses that connects many insurrectionist sites to the nerve center."

"Excuse me?"

Plutarch sighs. "A network of tunnels joining the rebel bases to the headquarters – that is, the Capitol."

I stop dead.

"Rebel?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

"_You're _a rebel?"

Plutarch rolls his eyes. "When they picked you out, they told me you were smart." He keeps walking, information flowing from him like a river.

For decades – since District 12's own Haymitch Abernathy won the fiftieth Games – Plutarch has been the leader of a rebel movement in the Capitol. When I voice my disbelief, he assures me that not all Gamemakers are big bad wolves. I can't help laughing at this, but he continues anyways.

Once there was a reasonable force gathered from high ranks in the government, the rebels needed to find a symbol, a martyr. Things begin to get confusing for me as he explains that last year's Reaping was staged. He doesn't go into detail, but apparently Prim's name was chosen beforehand, and _of course_ Katniss would volunteer, giving her an added dimension of tragedy and love.

"Except she didn't," I point out.

"Yes, well, that was simply bad luck," Plutarch says, his eyebrows creasing together.

"Bad luck?" I echo. "Bad luck? Prim _died_ because your plan failed!"

"My dear boy, if I'd known—"

"You would've done it even if you had. You don't care who dies!"

"I assure you, I do care. But there are certain, necessary sacrifices that must be made."

"Prim didn't know that she was – that you – it's—" I have to stop for a moment because I'm literally about to tear my hair out. I realize what I'm thinking and when I say it, there's an enormous satisfaction that goes along with the words. "She didn't know that she was just a piece in your Games!"

Plutarch chooses to ignore this, and I go along with him. Despite myself, I want to hear how I ended up trusting a Gamemaker like this. Exactly how did I end up here, beneath the Capitol, with no one knowing where I am?

It turns out that there's not much left to tell, though. Just some facts. How many districts are interested in rebelling: all of them, really, except for 1 and 2. If Snow has any idea that all this is going on: nope. Not that Plutarch is aware of, at least.

"What is '_all this'_?" I ask.

"This," he says, and pushes open a door. Right off, I notice two things.

First, I've neglected my task of remembering which way we've come. If I tried to get back alone, I'd be hopelessly lost. I do, however, remember climbing stairs at some point.

Second, there's somebody in the room.

It takes a second to recognize her, largely because I thought I'd never see her again. There's a long pink scar stretching from above her left temple, damaging her eye, and ending on her cheekbone, adding to the insanity of the moment. But she's holding her bow and a sheath of arrows is slung over her shoulder, and that's what clues me in.

"Katniss?" I gasp out, and, unbidden, my feet move forward. She moves faster, though.

She's got me up against the wall, arrow pointed right at my heart. She's breathing hard and her gray eyes are full of fury and pain, yet I can't look away.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you now."

"Rebellion,"

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**A/N: Do you hate me? Do you love me? Are you horribly indecisive?**

**PLEASE LET ME KNOW IN A REVIEW.**

**I'm going to be much more motivated to post the next chapter if I get more than 3 reviews for this chapter. Please don't let me down, even if you hate what's happening.**

**No flames, though, please.**


	18. Chapter 18: Business

Chapter 18: Business

She doesn't lower her bow – on the contrary, she pulls the string a little tighter.

"You're going to have to do better than that," she hisses.

"Ah – Katniss? I'm going to have to ask you to—"

"Shut _UP!_" She cuts Plutarch off mid-sentence, not looking away from me. "You deserve to die," she spits.

I swallow hard, not even able to defend myself from her accusation. "I know," I say honestly. This gives her pause. I see in her eyes that she wasn't expecting agreement, so I go with it, because as well deserved as my death might be, I'd prefer to live. "I know," I repeat, "and I can't tell you how – how sorry I am. If I could go back in time and change it all, I would do it. I want Prim to be al—"

"Don't say her name," Katniss growls, eyes narrowing.

"Okay," I say, trying to placate her. "I want _her_ to be alive as much as you do. More, maybe. I wish there were a way to bring her back."

"There's no way to do that," she says. "She's gone. You killed her." I can see in her eyes that she's about to release the arrow, so I say the only thing I can think of.

"Yerjeslikthum." I'm so filled with adrenaline and – I'll admit it – so terrified that the words jumble together, coming out in a garbled rush.

Katniss's eyebrows come together. "What?"

"You're just like them," I repeat, my voice unsteady. Is it my imagination, or does she lower her bow a fraction of an inch? Encouraged, I keep talking. "Just like the Capitol. If you kill me then you're giving in. You're doing what they want you to do."

"I am not doing _anything_ for those bastards!"

"You are, though. They've as good as killed me, and you're acting like you're in the Games. This is what they want. You can't live in Twelve and not know that." I guess I've convinced her. I must have, since she backs away and lowers her bow, though she still holds it tightly. I thought I'd feel triumphant, still being alive, but she looks so broken that I feel like a monster. Which is, of course, exactly what I am.

"Okay. Thank you, Katniss." Plutarch steps in and holds out his hand for her weapons. She glowers at him, but to his credit he doesn't back down. Eventually she forks over the bow and arrows, almost shoving them at him. I try to feel relieved that she can't kill me anymore, except she can probably strangle me with zero effort. In any case, I only feel guilty.

Now that the eminent threat is gone, I have some questions. "What's going on, Plutarch?" I demand.

"Your friend here" – Katniss frowns – "arrived in the Capitol only a week ago, on a shipment train from District 10. She hasn't yet told us how she managed to find out about the rebellion, but she admits that she stayed in District 13 for some time."

_Wait, what?_

"Wait, what?"

"Ah, of course, you don't know. District 13 used to develop nuclear weapons for the Capitol."

"But I thought they—"

"Mined graphite, yes. They did that, too. But when the first war started, they trained their missiles on our city and asked to be left alone, else they would destroy us. Of course we agreed. The citizens of Thirteen retreated underground, where they already had a network of tunnels. In a sense, it's an underground civilization. Years ago, myself and their leader worked to set up a plan for rebellion. This brings us to where we are now."

"Oh." What else can I say?

"Anyways, Katniss stayed in District 13 before jumping a train to the Capitol, where one of my… associates discovered her and brought her to me."

"Why were you trying to get to the Capitol?" I direct my question at the girl who's still glaring at me.

"None of your business," she growls. The phrase is so childish that I feel she should stick her tongue out at me, but I really can't blame her.

I decide to move on. "So, why did you bring me down here, anyways, Plutarch?" I ask.

He grins delightedly. "_This_ is where we get to the important part. Peeta, your obvious attachment to Prim and your hatred of the Capitol, combined with your ease at public speaking, make you an ideal rebel leader."

"When did this start?"

"Just before the Victory Tour."

"Do I get any say in this, or am I already signed up?" _Like I'm sponsoring a dying tribute,_ I think, because there's no possible way that a rebellion could actually _succeed_.

"Why, of course you've got a choice," Plutarch says in a voice that makes it clear that I don't. "But thousands of people have their hopes pinned to the idea of your participation in the cause. Many have risked their lives for this."

"Thousands of people? District 13 must be huge."

"No, no, you misunderstand me. Districts 3, 4, 7, 8, and 11 have begun to take part in our preparations. Districts 5, 6, and 9 are starting to turn the odds in our favor."

I don't have a response to this. Eight out of twelve – no, thirteen – districts are ready to actively challenge the Capitol. It's more than I'd ever hoped for, and yet I'm scared out of my wits. People are waiting for _me_ to support them?

"I'll think about it," I say automatically. A thought strikes me and I ask, "Does Haymitch know about this?"

Plutarch says, "He's been a part of the rebellion for three years. So has your escort, Effie Trinket."

"_Effie?_" An incredulous laugh escapes me at the thought of scatterbrained, bubbly Effie being involved in something as serious as this.

"Yes, she's helped to enlist the support of many high-ranking Capitol citizens," Plutarch says with a frown.

"So, what do we do now?" I ask.

"I think we've given you enough information for today," he says. "Don't want you falling into enemy hands, now, do we?"

"Right." I follow Plutarch to the door and look back at Katniss, who's turning away. "I really am sorry," I tell her. I don't even know if she hears me.

Up through the maze of corridors and into the closet in the Sponsor Center. Plutarch's last words to me are, "Tomorrow, I'll want an answer." I exit the closet and find Haymitch waiting right outside.

"No sponsors yet," he says, "but it's only day one. The Games haven't even started yet."

I'm tempted to ask how anyone could find a sponsor in the party that's still going on, but then I'm distracted by something Plutarch said earlier.

"_When the first war started, they trained their missiles on our city and asked to be left alone, else they would destroy us."_

"_When the first war started…"_

The first war? Does that mean that there's going to be another one?


	19. Chapter 19: The Dangers of Living

**A/N: Gah! I'm so sorry for the wait! I was too busy studying for the spelling bee, but now that's over (since Tuesday). No, I didn't win, so I'm not going to the State Bee. I got second place. My friend won and she skipped a grade. No surprise there.**

**I've been getting a bunch of reviews wondering why Katniss wants to kill Peeta. To answer them: Remember how Prim decided to give up her own life so Katniss and Peeta could live happily ever after? You know, way back in 2010? Well, Katniss blames Peeta for confessing his love and giving Prim the idea, thus killing her, though indirectly. Twisted reasoning but still pretty true.**

**Also, you've been asking why exactly _did_ Prim kill herself in the first place? I believe I touched on this above - so her sister and the baker could hook up - but also because after causing Feli (the girl from 4) she couldn't live with herself.**

**AND that's the end of my explanation. If anyone is unhappy with the way Prim's Games turned out, I've got a story called "To Survive" and it's an alternate ending. An anonymous reviewer gave me the idea. Please read it?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.**

**(Yeah, I'm trying to put those in my stories. Though I'm such an odd writer that no one would mistake me for SuCo. She's way better than I am.)**

* * *

Chapter 19: The Dangers of Living

The entire way back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center, I'm bursting to ask Haymitch what he knows and why he didn't tell me before. It's all I can do not to spill everything out right then and there. But this is the Capitol and even when it doesn't _look_ like there are any microphones or cameras, you can never be too careful. So I walk quickly through the streets and wait tensely in the elevator, biting the inside of my cheek so hard that I taste blood.

As soon as the door swings shut and we're in the commons of our quarters, I open my mouth to speak.

"Later, boy," says Haymitch, cutting me off before a single word escapes me. I'm tempted to argue, to demand answers and information, when Madge and Fritz come through the door behind us.

"Training's over!" trills Effie, appearing through another entry. "And just in time for dinner. Why don't you two go wash up, and then we can eat?"

"You, too," Haymitch orders. Of course. I have to go so that the adults can talk about how little Peeta's in on the secret game. Right.

I walk out, trying not to be too sulky. However, I don't go to my room. I go back to the roof, the one place where I'm even half certain that I can be alone. It's only late afternoon and the sun is shining. Under normal circumstances, this would be a wonderful day to view the Capitol. But these aren't normal circumstances. I've learned of a conspiracy that could have saved a life. I'm in love with a girl who wants me dead. The girl who loves _me_ will likely be dead within the month. And Prim is still irrevocably lifeless. Not exactly prime sightseeing conditions.

What am I going to do? My life is one big catastrophe and I can't find a way to clean it up. What scares me the most is that there might not be any way to make it better at all, no way to fix things up so that my existence has any semblance of normalcy. Not that it ever did in the first place. But with each new discovery, I become even more hopelessly entangled and I'm no longer sure that there's a solution.

Behind me, a door bangs shut, and I whip around. Madge is standing at the top of the stairs and it's clear from her expression that she didn't expect to find me here. Both of us searching for solitude, and both of us unable to find it.

I step away from the railing and walk past where Madge is frozen, intending to get some answers. But she stops me.

"Wait."

I do.

"Peeta, I… I'm sorry about last night. I meant what I said but I understand that now isn't exactly the best time. I mean, you're going through a lot." Does she know how accurate that statement is? She can't possibly begin to imagine the truth of her words. "We all are, I guess, but especially you. And I'm sure you don't want to know anything about me anymore."

"What? Why would – what are you talking about?"

"Well, I'm going to die, aren't I?"

And that's when everything snaps into place.

She thinks that because she's doomed, I don't want to get attached. That I want to distance myself from her. And she's right – I should want that. So why in the world do I find myself aching at the thought that I should ignore her?

The worst bit is that I can't stand seeing her look at me like that, despairing and hopeful at the same time. As much as I want to deny it, it's true that she will probably meet her fate in the Games this year.

I think that's why I kiss her.

All the sounds, the car horns and general city noises, seem to fade away and there's nothing in the world but Madge and me on top of our graves, twining into one being to save ourselves from living too hard. It's not the first time I've kissed a girl, but it's the first time that I've cared, because it's the first time that I haven't wished I were kissing Katniss instead. The lips beneath mine belong to Madge, and it's _all right_. I don't think about anyone else and I really don't care.

Eventually we break apart and I don't know if it was Madge or me who pulled away first. All I know is that it leaves me feeling drained, as though I poured a bit of my self into the kiss.

"I won't forget you," I promise, because that's really the best I can do. "Not ever."

"Thanks," she says, breathless but still bitterly. Sadly. I can tell that she knows the same as me: that the kiss was for her benefit and almost nothing else. That she doesn't have my heart and probably never will, though I have hers. That the both of us really would be better off ignoring each other.

After a moment of silence we head inside together, joining up with Fritz in the hallway. I wonder if losing Madge will be like losing Prim. If that's the case, I'm not sure I'll be able to hold myself together. But if Fritz dies, it truly will be losing Prim, because of the similarities in age and build. Nothing to do but wait and see what happens, and see if I can survive. As though I'm the tribute again.

"So," Effie says when we're seated around the usual banquet with the stylists, "how was training?"

I groan inwardly at her choice of words – this week will be only terrible – but that's wiped away with Fritz's response.

"The boy from District 7 is dead."

The effect of this simple sentence on all of us might be comical in some other time and place. Haymitch slowly sets down his fork, gripping it tightly, but he's the only one to react calmly. Effie utters a little shriek and drops her spoon into her soup, making it splash up onto her face. Portia's wine glass shatters in her hand. Cinna seems to choke on his mouthful of food, growing very pale. I myself can only stare openmouthed at Fritz, not really comprehending.

"How?" Haymitch asks, and I notice Madge tracing patterns on the tablecloth, not seeming surprised.

"He slipped training with an axe," Fritz tells us, sounding horrified at the memory. I don't blame him. I've seen death, and that was when I was expecting it. To have it creep up on you, jumping out when nothing is supposed to go wrong yet – how shocking. And he was only thirteen.

"Well. That's one less opponent for you to worry about, then," says Haymitch, as though discussing the weather. And the conversation moves on to what skills the others learned during the day, while I was discovering too many secrets all at once.

After dinner I don't leave, but plant myself more firmly in my chair, staring at Haymitch. As soon as Madge and Fritz leave the room I growl, "Answers. Now." Even I'm surprised at my dangerous tone.

He sighs and leaves the room but returns in less than three seconds with Effie, who looks uncharacteristically serious. They both take seats across from me, and they both start talking at once.

"Look here, boy, what you've got to understand is—"

"Peeta, you have to remember to—"

They stop and glare at each other.

I decide it might be a good idea to intervene. "How about," I suggest, "I ask questions and you guys answer them?" Two curt nods. "Okay, then. My first question is, was there anything – _anything at all_ – that you could have done to save Prim?"

I'm rewarded with an uncertain silence before Haymitch begins to speak.

"Peeta." I think this may be the first time he's actually used my name rather than _boy_. "I don't think anyone can really answer that. Last year the rebels were much less organized than they are now. Yes, Plutarch was and is a Gamemaker, but he's not Head Gamemaker. He only has so much power, and he can't control the show. But believe me, it hurt all of us when she died. We're not heartless."

_Maybe not _you, I think darkly. This is the biggest speech I've ever heard Haymitch make. "What about you, Effie? You have more connections in the Capitol."

"Well, I don't know, Peeta. Haymitch is a victor so he's quite a bit more, um, valuable than I am." It's clear as she says this that _valuable_ isn't the word she would choose. "So much was going on last year, what with the Plan – I assume Plutarch told you about the Plan? About the pre-decided Reaping?" I nod. "Last year everything was chaotic. We'd prepared ourselves for Katniss, the Girl on Fire, who would eliminate all competition and win the audience's favor. What we got was – well, what we got was Prim."

I swallow hard. It hurts to imagine Katniss in the Games, in so much danger and _me_ being locked in the arena with her. What would happen? Of course I'd never kill her, but would she kill me? How on earth would all of that work out?

I'm glad I'll never need to find out.

"Yeah, you did get Prim," I say, just barely keeping my voice steady. "You got her and just dropped her without even a 'sorry.' You could have at least _tried_ to save her."

"Oh, Peeta, we did try!" Effie trills, sounding more upset than ever. "At least, I did. I'm not sure about _him_."

Sheesh, can't these two can it for five minutes? I decide to move on. "How did you two even get into the rebellion? Aren't you watched all the time?"

"It wasn't really difficult," Effie tells me. "During the Seventieth Games there were two twelve-year-olds and both of them were, well, _murdered_ in the most horrible ways. I won't give you the details. But then I realized that this had to stop. I couldn't believe that others didn't have the same idea, so I just watched and waited. Soon enough I found people willing to make a change and I joined in. As for the cameras, that's not a problem. If you're not a tribute, they pretty much leave you alone."

I turn to Haymitch, who's not meeting my eyes. He fiddles around with the edge of the tablecloth. Effie seems to know what's coming and her expression grows sympathetic.

"In my Games," he begins hoarsely, "there was this girl from Twelve. We were stuck in the arena together and she died. End of story."

Those two simple sentences speak volumes about Haymitch. I don't wonder anymore what makes him risk everything for an end to the killing.

"Well, I've got to run," Effie says suddenly, standing and leaving in one fluid motion. Haymitch and I don't move until we hear the door shut to the elevator.

"What was her name?" I ask, unable to help myself.

"Maysilee Donnor," he grunts, and I realize that I've heard her name before. She's Madge's aunt. With a huge sigh, Haymitch stands. "Listen. I know what's gonna happen with this year's girl. She's gonna die and you're gonna die a little bit more." He plants his palms on the table and leans towards me. "You gotta let her go, boy. Don't mess around with her like you're doing. You're only hurting both of you." With that he leaves, but I don't hear his footsteps moving away from the other side of the door and so I know he's still right there.

"Did you love her?" I call, morbidly curious.

There's a long pause before he answers. "Doesn't matter anymore."

And I suppose it doesn't.


	20. Chapter 20: Chapter title doesn't fit!

**A/N: I'm really not happy about this chapter. Not really sure why. And by the way, did everyone go blind for the last chappie? I expected about 50 reviews cursing my butt off. But maybe not. Maybe you guys are all Madge/Peeta fans. Who knows?**

* * *

Chapter 20: Encounters of the Capitol Kind

"Hello. What can I do for you?" I really hope I sound more professional than I am. I'd hate to mess this up – hate as in, curse myself for possibly killing yet another one of my friends. This is the first potential sponsor we've had, and it's a relief to know that at least _someone_ is taking an interest in our tributes.

"I'd like to sponsor Madge Undersee," the voice says on the other end. It's a man and he sounds sort of middle-aged, and eager to volunteer.

"Can I have your name?"

"Filius Hrogthen."

I jot it down on the no-longer-blank form waiting in front of me. "And how much will you be pledging?"

"I'll give fifty gilds."

"Thank you, sir," I say. It always confuses me, this Capitol money – it's slightly different from what we use in District Twelve, though nothing unmanageable. I write this down, too, and hang up.

Haymitch peers over my shoulder. "What, only one?"

"Am I supposed to have more? There haven't been any other calls. And it's not like I'm behind," I add, looking pointedly at the other tables, all of which are empty. I don't really care that I'm the only one not drinking.

"Well, they aren't going to come in here," Haymitch says. "They'll be out there, lining up. Go get 'em." He grabs my collar and yanks me out of my chair before shoving me towards the door.

"You might have mentioned this _before_," I mutter. With a bang, I throw open the huge metal doors and the sponsors – most of whom appear to have been waiting for quite some time – stream inside. I hurry back to my table and wait.

It doesn't take long for sponsors to find me. Before long, there's a line stretching for quite a few yards. I couldn't be more pleased, but some of the Capitol people have so many operations or just seem so generally messed up that it's difficult to take them seriously.

Like the woman who wants to sponsor Fritz "because he's so sweet." Why, exactly does she even permit his being in the Games if she cares so much?

Or the group of boys about my age who sponsor Madge because they think she's sexy. Which I suppose she is, and of course I'm grateful for their support, but it's an odd reason to sponsor someone.

And then there's the little girl with blonde ringlets and dazzling blue eyes, who can't be older than Fritz, and asks to sponsor him "just because." I'm really, really shocked at the amount she pledges – two hundred gilds. That's enough to buy food for a year. But then she gives her name: Rosey Snow.

The President's granddaughter wants to sponsor Fritz. I wonder if the snake himself knows about this? Then Rosey leans in and whispers, "Plutarch wants your answer."

I suck in a breath, absolutely stunned. There was no way, ever, that I could have foreseen this. Nothing at all to point to it. And I'm not at all ready. But when I open my mouth to say so, what comes out is, "I'm in."

And she turns around and flounces out the door.

For a moment I just sit there, trying to figure it out, until the man in front of me clears his throat impatiently. I look up and say, as I have dozens of times today, "Name, please?"

* * *

It's with an aching hand and pounding head that I pull Haymitch into the elevator that night. He grins around at the glass walls, swaying, and slurs, "So, how'd it go?"

"I met the President's daughter," I tell him, figuring that there's nothing any camera could pick up to endanger us. Just a simple sentence, right?

Apparently not. Or, at least, Haymitch doesn't think so. The minute we're inside the door on the twelfth floor, he slaps me so hard that I stagger backwards. "You idiot," he hisses, all traces of drunkenness gone. As I shake my head slightly to clear it, he's glaring at me. "Don't _ever_ say something like that again."

"Why not?" I groan, massaging my jaw. I head for one of the mouthpieces hanging off of the walls. "Ice," I tell it, hoping that Capitol room service is quick.

"Because it'll only bring her trouble." Haymitch lowers his voice, glancing around. "Snow's not above torturing his own relatives. If he finds out she's mixing with the rebels, that's exactly what he'll do. Anything to find out our secrets."

Well, I'm just making wrong turns left and right, aren't I?

"So you know she's on our side," I say, and it isn't a question.

"I know it all, boy," he answers. Then there's a knock on the door. I open it to find a red-haired girl Avox with a bag of ice, looking confused.

"Thanks," I tell her. She nods and leaves, and I shut the door and bring the bag to my face. "I can't believe you did that."

"Your skull's so thick that I'm surprised you felt it." With a grin, Haymitch saunters out of the room.

"Nerve endings aren't behind bone!" I yell after him just as Madge enters.

"A little tense?" she asks.

"Just a tad." I realize that I'm in a truly foul mood.

"Did we get any sponsors?"

"Um, yeah. About thirty."

"Is that a lot?" she asks, so hopeful that it bothers me.

"Not really," I say, watching her face fall. "I mean, that's quite a few people, but they didn't pay much money. Only about ten florens a piece."

"And that's a small amount," she guesses.

"Yeah," I sigh. "Who knows, though? We've got the rest of the week." Once upon a time I might be tempted to say, _"We've got the rest of our lives."_ But that's not true anymore.

* * *

The rest of the week, actually, is really only two days. There aren't any more sponsors willing to bite, so all of our spirits sink ever lower, and then it starts to rain. Not just showers but pouring buckets, like the sky is trying to drown us. If not for sewers, it might have worked.

Madge learns to start a fire – she's pretty good at it. For a girl from 12, I mean, who's never set foot in the woods. I'm trying not to let myself think that she's got a chance. But there's no denying that she can gut a person with a knife in the blink of an eye, for which I'm grateful. I don't think I can take much more of this gloom. I know that a lot of it's self-inflicted, though these awful rainclouds aren't helping.

Fritz figures out that his best bet is to run, and run fast. We get the idea from a girl from District Seven who won a few years back, named Johanna Mason. She acted so weak that nobody bothered with her until she was one of the last ones left, which was when everyone discovered that she was a killing machine. I don't really think that Fritz could do that last bit, because he quakes at the mere mention of blood, but at least he could stay out of sight. Maybe, with a lot of good luck – which seems to be out of stock – he'll make it to the final eight. Everyone knows that that's what really counts, because there's a lot of special background information on the remaining tributes to make them seem more like actual _people_. I hear it warms the cockles of the average Capitol citizen's heart.

So, on the final day of training, nobody eats dinner except for Haymitch, though that can't really be called eating. More like drowning in liquor. In any case, he's the only one consuming anything.

We all file into the television room to see the scores. Predictably, the careers all get eights or nines, and little Elvorix from District Two gets a ten. From District Nine – Key and Rachelle Ehmy – are two sevens, which is unusual for their district. All too soon, it's time for District Twelve, and none of us are ready.

It's Fritz first, and he gets a two, which he takes well. Surprisingly so, in fact. Though admittedly paler, he doesn't run off or anything. I can see that he realizes it will help with his strategy of being ignored.

Then Madge's face appears on the television screen and, beneath it, the number seven. She's stunned, and no wonder – this might be the highest score that someone from Twelve ever receives.

"How'd you do that?" I ask.

She blushes. "I juggled knives."

"You know how to juggle?"

"Well, yeah. My father taught me a few years ago. It's a bit more dangerous with knives, but not too hard."

Huh. That takes the cake.

* * *

Interview day dawns bright and clear with a stark contrast to the rest of the week. We all are careful not to make any reference to death, but everyone's thinking about it all the same. When it's the day before you're life's going to be on the line, you can't forget it.

"So, for your interview, I think we should go with something confident. Maybe _strong-willed_ or something along the lines of that. What do you think?"

Madge nods. After several practice questions, I think she's got it. And she assures me that she's never afraid of speaking to crowds. I guess, being the Mayor's daughter, that's not surprising.

Fritz's angle is easy. We do _sniveling coward_ like no one ever has before. If only he could fight as well as he can speak.

Then it's nighttime and all of us victors are seated on the stage to enormous applause. The tributes file out and take their own spots.

Showtime.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, this chapter is a piece of garbage, but I hope the next one is better!**


	21. Chapter 21: I Don't Kiss and Tell

**A/N: I'd like to say that, yes, I **_**do**_** know that the girls are supposed to be interviewed first, but I forgot and I'm too lazy to change it. Plus, I like it that Madge is the last tribute up there, with her really, um, interesting ideas. Okay, I won't spoil anything for you guys. Here you go. AND – I'm sorry for the wait between chapters. Huge math test on systems of equations, plus a speech on the dangers of indoor tanning, and a spelling bee. I'll put a note on that at the end of the chapter. Now, without further ado, I give you… Chapter 21!**

* * *

Chapter 21: I Don't Kiss and Tell

First up, of course, is District 1. As if nobody can guess. The male tribute, Orb Hetair, walks quickly to the chair.

"Orb! Wonderful to see you!" cries Caesar, shaking his hand. This year he's dyed himself a very bright pink.

"Uh, really? I – I mean, yeah, thanks. Nice to see you, too."

"So, in your mind, what's the most intriguing thing about the Capitol?"

"Well, it's got nice landscaping. That's what I've always admired in cities – you know we've got similar structures back in District 1? Maybe I could show you guys some of our best spots after the Games."

"You sound like you think you'll win."

"You can't ever be too careful, but I don't think it's a big issue, to be honest."

I decide I don't like this kid. Orb's partner is named Elegance and is even more determined than her cousin.

"I just want the Games to start," she growls. "I can't stand waiting and it's so _boring_ here."

"Is that so?" I think Caesar's a little offended, but he hides it pretty well.

"Yeah. If one more person asks me how I'm going to win, I'll scream!"

"And how _are_ you going to win, Elegance?"

She sits there and glowers at him. And sits. And glowers. And sits some more. Time stretches out so long that I think the buzzer's about to sound when she finally speaks.

"_I'M GONNA BEAT THE SNOT OUT OF EVERYONE IN THAT ARENA!"_

Yep, she screamed. And she laughs as she makes her way back to her seat.

District 2's boy is a giant like Thresh, but forbidding like Cato. The girl, though, is startlingly angelic in a white gown made of something like stars. She's twelve years old and miniscule, and I remember her from the Reapings. Her green eyes glint in the bright lights as she takes her chair. Despite myself, I feel a twinge of sympathy. The audience murmurs wonderingly.

"You look lovely, Elvorix," Caesar tells her.

"Thank you," she says shyly.

"Is it hard for you here?" he asks.

Her eyes grow very bright and she nods. "I just want to go home," she whimpers. Her small size makes her seem much younger than she is, and she pulls off the defenseless act effortlessly.

Unfortunately, she's one of the most interesting tributes.

The boy from Three, Cordin, is unbelievably obnoxious and cracks the worst jokes I've ever heard. I notice a few of the other victors sighing in relief when his buzzer goes off. The girl from his district is much quieter and, though I'm trying to deny it, quite charming. Her curly black hair wreathes her face and she looks like someone who just stepped out of a forest in her deep green dress that matches her eyes exactly.

Naylor, the District 4 boy, is so smart that I bet he could just come up with some plan to win the Games without touching anyone. He's very quiet but when he does talk it's apparent that he misses nothing, his gray eyes darting everywhere at once. His district partner, Marlene, seems very at ease up on the stage. She has her waist-long brown hair in an intricate style and infused with glitter that catches the light with her every move.

The tributes from District 5 are twins, and it's heart wrenching to see them both on stage, lined up to die. The boy, Bridger, is pretty enthusiastic about the upcoming battle, but I've got a feeling his mentor put him up to that. Nothing he says erases the fear in his eyes. His sister, Ahna, is the same. She's excited and can't sit still in her chair. It's supposed to be endearing, and it is – but only to the Capitol viewers. Anybody from the Districts is only going to think that it's an amazing loss of energy.

District 6's boy is named Nathaniel, and he takes everything Caesar says and twists it so it sounds as though he's being persuaded. Each time, he gets defensive and retorts that it's _his decision_. His blue eyes are like miniature flames as he shakes his head vehemently. His sister, Lynna, is much calmer but just as focused. She's about as down-to-earth as a person can get.

The boy from District 7, Peter Keskow, just acts relaxed, as though he's already got a plan and wants nothing more than to wait. It makes me think that if every tribute could be this way, there would be so much less anxiety. But then I remember Prim and realize that not everyone's as lucky as I am – most people don't make it out alive. And the terror of last year is too fresh to forget. Twig Keskow, Peter's sister, takes everything Caesar says very literally. Every joke is ruminated over before a solemn answer.

The tributes from District 8 are much more lighthearted than the others so far. The boy, Frieze Tussah, is incredibly optimistic, but it's his cousin Paisley who makes a lasting impression. I get the feeling that she could make anything in the arena work to her advantage, and know that I'll have to watch out for her.

Key and Rachelle Ehmy are both dressed to emphasize their physical charms. A deep red suit compliments Key's dark complexion. It seems stuffy at first but as he talks I realize that the outfit makes him seem more sophisticated. His cousin Rachelle is easily the most beautiful girl on the stage. Her dark brown hair, chocolaty eyes and dark skin coupled with the sheer purple dress she's wearing make the audience murmur like you wouldn't believe. The way she carries herself suggests that she's no stranger to this kind of attention, either, and it's not difficult to guess why.

The boy tribute from District 10, Alyx Hurston, makes even me crack a smile. He has a charismatic aura of self-assurance that makes him very easy to get along with – at least, I guess he does, because I'm not the one who's interviewing him. But judging from Caesar's plentiful grins, he's quite charming. His sister Ella is his exact opposite: so tough that you could probably throw her off a cliff and she wouldn't be hurt in the slightest.

District 11's male tribute is named Zale Tanager, and his angle is assertive. He carries himself with a jaunty but not-quite-arrogant stride. There's an edge to his laughter that keys me into the fact that, just like most of his opponents, he'd rather be anywhere but here. His cousin Finch Tanager has a sly grin that's impossible to overlook. She's seventeen but looks only about thirteen and no doubt her petite build will be a considerable asset in the arena. Her responses all have a certain sneakiness that throws me off.

Finally, it's time for Fritz's interview. He stutters a little over the "hello," like we talked about, as pale as a sheet. For a few minutes he and Caesar go back and forth, and the contrast between them is starkly obvious. Fritz's hesitation and nerves make Caesar's professionalism seem flawless, though I can tell that he's thrown by such a timid subject. But when we get to the final question, he outdoes himself.

"I must say, Fritz, you seem a little nervous. Is something bothering you?"

Fritz glances at me as if asking for help, but there's nothing I can do. He takes a deep breath and I can feel the whole audience leaning forward on the edges of their seats. "I – I just – I can't stop thinking about my little sister," he confesses. "She was real sick when I left, and I don't want her to worry about me. It would only make her worse and then she probably wouldn't be any better off than – than I am."

The buzzer sounds.

With undisguised relief, Fritz bolts to his feet and scrambles back to his own chair to a smattering of sympathetic applause. Madge takes his place in a lavender gown with an intricately beaded bodice. Cinna has outdone himself: her delicate necklace and earrings are glittering crystal that bathes her entire body in light from the refracted spotlights. She seems to glow and it's difficult to focus on what she's saying rather than the dancing, bouncing rays of luminescence.

She goes for good-natured, laughing at Caesar's jokes and offering a few of her own. Charming, elegant, confident – she's got the audience from the get-go. If I hadn't heard her last night, talking about dying, I might believe that she's happy here. She's certainly a good actor; possibly better than me. I'm glad. It'll give potential sponsors something to remember her for. At this point, we need everyone we can get.

Just like he does for all the girls, Caesar asks if she has anyone special back home.

"A lover?" Madge repeats with a tinkling laugh. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, anyone as beautiful as you would have no shortage of boys," says Caesar. "Who is it?" His tone is conversational, not in the least bit prying.

Madge shakes her head, sending spots of light twirling around her. "Sorry. I don't kiss and tell."

This gets a huge roar out of the audience and Caesar bursts into laughter. "Whoever it is, they're quite lucky. I can't imagine why you want to keep it a secret, but I'll respect your privacy. Still, could you tell us anything about him? Just give us some clues."

I can see Madge's mind working at the speed of light. "He's very handsome," she says haltingly. More laughs. "And he's brave. He doesn't refuse anyone who needs help." I don't know where she's pulling all of this from, but I hope with every fiber of my being that she's not talking about me. "He's kind and wonderful and – well, I love him."

If the crowd was enthusiastic before, they're out of control now. It's like a wildfire spreading through the people as they scream approval. I clap along with all of them, but Madge's eyes are focused on me. She's got that same stony determination as she did on the roof that first night, except this time I can't imagine why.

While everyone's still yelling, the buzzer goes off, and she quietly returns to her seat. Everyone stands for the anthem but Madge is still watching me.

All thoughts of love and mysteries go out the window when I head for the victors' elevators. I see Plutarch Heavensbee standing off to the side, and I catch his eye. His fingers curl in a barely perceptible motion, though the message is clear: _come with me_. At my side, Haymitch nods, and I slip away.

**

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A/N: Whew! **_**That's**_** what I call fun. There are a few things I'd like to address:**

**1. In the previous chapter, the Capitol currency is called "florens." That's a play on the word "florin" from the French. I intentionally misspelled it, okay? Sheesh.**

**2. Is Peeta sounding too girly? Because, yeah, I'm a girl, and writing Peeta (a guy) is a little challenging. I've got to ask, since I have absolutely no clue. DOES HE SOUND TOO FEMININE? Let me know by PM or review.**

**3. Does anyone else understand the joke with Snow's granddaughter? PM me or review if so.**

**4. In the previous chapter, Peeta tells Haymitch, "I met the President's daughter." Let it be known that I meant **_**granddaughter**_** and am too lazy right now to update it.**

**4. THE SPELLING BEE.**

**I came in 2****nd**** place for my school, and I got out on the word "manducatory." No one I talk to has ever heard it before, and neither have I. And you know the real kicker? The final round was 3 people: me, my friend, and a 6****th**** grader. The 6****th**** grader got the word "acquiescence," my friend was given "coalesce," and **_**of course**_** I got "manducatory." "Acquiescence" was spelled wrong, and I misspelled "manducatory"… an "a" instead of the "u." But I know how to spell both "acquiescence" and "coalesce!" So I was wondering, has anyone actually heard the word "manducatory" before? Please let me know in the reviews! Or PM me, either way.**


	22. Chapter 22: You Can't Promise That

**A/N: Hmmm, nobody's heard of "manducatory." _Interesting_. Thank you to all my lovely reviewers, you make my day(s)! This chapter was so much fun to write, largely because it's really boring to write about a person who's always nice and kind and never yells. So here I was able to let Peeta get a little angry. Let me repeat: So. Much. Fun.**

**And I will try not to give out many more spoilers and just let you guys read the chapter. So, enjoy.  
**

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Chapter 22: You Can't Promise That

"What's going on?" I ask quietly.

"You'll see," is Plutarch's singsong, easy answer as he heads toward the stairs rather than the elevators.

We go down at least ten flights of stairs before we get to the ground level, and my legs are aching. I follow Plutarch out into the streets, which are relatively empty, and after a few minutes I realize he's leading me to the Sponsor Center. Why, I've got no clue, and I'm not sure I want to know the answer. The Sponsor Center is deserted when we get there. It seems strange without the constant noise of drunken victors, but I'm definitely not complaining. It comes as no surprise when we enter the same tunnel-like passage as before. Plutarch has led me quite a ways when I ask, "How long has Rosey Snow been a rebel?"

"Maybe about a year. She's very bright."

"How old is she?"

Plutarch hesitates. "I think she's fourteen."

"_Fourteen_? That's impossible! She's _miniscule_!" Plutarch says nothing, just keeps walking. After a pause, I demand, "Isn't it all a bit dangerous, though? She's just a kid."

"Well, of course it is. Life's not user-friendly." The voice doesn't belong to Plutarch. There she is, at the end of the hall. Watching me. Her weapons, I note with relief, aren't present.

Seeing Katniss, though – nothing could ever really prepare me for it. A jumble of emotions wash through me in the space of a heartbeat, not the least of which being frustration at the loathing in her eyes. Guilt because she's perfectly justified to look at me that way. Longing because as much as she hates me, I still love her. And some more guilt because I've got no right to feel that way.

"Ah, Katniss, you're right on time."

"Will somebody please tell me what's going on?"

"Sure thing." Katniss's voice is cold and hard. "What's going on is that we've got to figure out how to protect only the people who need it without aiding the enemy, and thanks to you, we've got pretty much no chance of that."

"Uh – what did I do? And who are we protecting? Plutarch, please give me a straight answer."

Plutarch nods, which is unexpected. "First, we should probably get to our appointed room." In answer to my look of supreme confusion, he says, "There are only so many places that a conversation such as this one can be held. The hallway, frankly, isn't one of them."

Katniss and I follow him through a few more corridors until he enters a small, square, white-walled room. The pristine, hospital-like atmosphere raises goose bumps on my arms. I've only ever been in one room like it – I woke up in one after the Games. That's one memory that I don't need to remember.

There's a circular table which we all sit around. "So. What's going on?" I ask, in a tone of voice that allows nothing less than information.

"Well, Peeta, I think you need to know is that this Quarter Quell is where everything is going to change. If everything goes according to plan, this will be the last of the Hunger Games."

"What exactly do you mean by 'according to plan'?"

"I mean that this year our tributes know what to expect."

"Yeah, but – what if they die? They're going to die."

"No, no, you misunderstand me." Plutarch leans forward across the table. "This year, _no one will win_."

It only takes me a second to process this, and then I've got another question. "How is that supposed to happen?"

"That's what we're working on. We're planning to conduct an airlift at some point during the Games to transport the contestants to District 13."

"I still don't get it. Do the tributes know about this, or are you hoping that they'll make some vow of pacifism and refuse to fight each other?" I have no clue how this is going to work.

"That's surprisingly accurate." I resist the urge to ask why everyone is always surprised when I'm correct. "The tributes from Districts One, Two, Three, Four, Seven, Eight, and Nine have an idea of what's going to happen. The others don't know, but at this point all we can do is hope that they'll realize how most of their opponents aren't lifting a finger towards them. Of course, if they attack first, those on our side will have no choice but to defend themselves."

"Should I tell my tributes?" The words are out before I wonder why I need to ask for permission. It's cruel, isn't it, to let them think that they're going to die when that might not be the case? So why wouldn't I let them know the truth?

"_No._ Why do you think Haymitch or Effie hasn't said anything yet? Because there's a very real possibility that everything will go wrong. That would mean that the Capitol will torture rebel secrets out of tributes suspected to be in on the plan. The fewer people who know anything, the better. We only need those who've already been told."

"Why are you telling me, then?"

"Because you're too involved to be left out. You're the face of the rebellion, in a way. It's imperative that you know what's going on."

"But—"

"Don't you understand _anything_?" Katniss bursts out, glaring at me. It's almost a physical pain to know that she hates me so much. "I personally don't see why you're so important. But everyone else thinks you're going to save us all, and that means that they have to tell you everything!"

"I'm supposed to save the world?"

"Don't worry – I'm not expecting anything spectacular. Or even remotely adequate, for that matter."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I'm so close to losing my temper now, closer than I've ever been before.

"It _means_ that the only thing you're good for is messing everything up!"

"Really? Because I seem to remember that you're the one who ran off. Why not volunteer? If you could do a better job, why didn't you step up?" I've raised my voice to equal her volume – which, I must admit, is considerable. Out of the corner of my eye I notice Plutarch quietly leaving the room, but I'm too angry now to care.

"I was hunting and the fence was on for once, I couldn't have predicted it! Not that you'd know anything about that. Have you ever starved? No!"

"That's completely beside the point, Katniss! I haven't starved, but I've been to an arena, which is one thing that you can't lord over me. You don't know what that's like, and I don't think you remember that I was a second away from giving up – from letting Prim win – _yes_, I said her name!" I add as Katniss catches her breath in a gasp. "She grabbed that knife away from me! Don't you remember?"

Even as I speak the words, I'm transported back in time to that awful day.

"_You're only twelve, Prim. You can't die here, today. That's not what's supposed to happen." She just stares solemnly at me, not buying it for a second. "What do you gain by this? Why?"_

_She answers in a voice as ragged and broken as my heart. "I gain peace. I'll be free of the blood on my hands." Her eyes tighten with determination._

_I stare at her, and in a split second my mind is made up. I pull out my knife and drag it through the air that's suddenly thickened, drag it toward my chest – and she wrests it from my hand and the blade slices cleanly into her tiny form, and already the deep crimson stain begins to blossom._

I blink and realize my vision is blurring. Across the table, Katniss is trembling. I'm sure she's seeing the television screen again, watching the life bleed out of her sister, watching me stand by and let her vanish. In a quick motion I step around the table and touch her shoulder.

"I never meant for it to end up like this. It was never supposed to go this way." A sob rips from her throat. "If I could go back and change it all, I swear I would."

"That's funny." She turns to look at me and I'm struck again by the livid scar twisting across her face. "I never thought you cared about her. It was always me. And she _knew_ it, and that's why she did what she did! If you hadn't been so incredibly stupid at that interview, she never would have gotten it into her head to give up!"

"No," I say, and I'm not sure what I'm protesting – if it's the blame or her logic or something else. "No. Remember what she said? She said that she couldn't live with what she did, with killing the girl from District 4. And then, when she was almost gone, she said something more."

"What did she say?" The words are urgent and Katniss grips my arm like a vice, a lifeline. Something to hold onto.

"She said 'you and my sister… make this count.'" It kills me to cause her more pain, but she needs to hear this.

I don't know what I'd expected, but it wasn't for Katniss to collapse into her chair with a shuddering sob. She lays her head in her arms and weeps, and I can't do anything but sit here. I'd almost prefer her to shout at me some more. After what seems like forever, she sniffs and looks at me.

"The day of the Reaping," she says, "She promised to win. I made her promise to win and she said she would. But she didn't." Her silvery eyes are like twin moons. "Why did you let her lose?"

I feel like I did just after that cannon rang out. Hollow and lost. And I can't deny it anymore – I have to admit that I _did_ let her lose. "I let her lose… because…" I realize what the truth is. "Because she didn't really lose. She won. She found peace. If she'd won the Games, she would never have been happy. You knew her better than I did. Do you really think that she could have killed people and lived with herself?"

"She couldn't," Katniss says. "She was never a killer. She was a healer. But – but I promised I'd always protect her. I said she'd never be hurt, and now she's gone."

"Why are you torturing yourself like this?" I ask, and her head snaps up at my accusatory tone. "None of it was ever your fault."

"But I _promised_," she repeats.

I shake my head. "None of us can promise anything and expect it to happen. We especially can't promise to keep our promises. I made a promise to my mother once to stay away from the Seam – you see how well that worked."

Katniss abruptly stands and wipes her face on her sleeve. "So. You've got to save the world, right?"

"Do I?" I'm taken aback by her sudden change of subject.

"Yeah. But I'm still not hoping for a brilliant job." She smiles then. It's watery and trembling, but it's directed at me. And I know I'm miles underneath the ground, but I feel like I could fly.

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**A/N: I would really like it if everyone who read this chapter could review and tell me what they think. Did everything go too fast, did Katniss act too openly, was it horrible? Or, conversely, was everything perfect? I'm not expecting that last one.**

**Just click the button - it's not hard! Thanks, all. I'm off to write a paper on the Periodic Table. Wish me luck!  
**


	23. Chapter 23: Let the Games Begin!

**A/N: Okay, so I realize a really funny, really major, but in a way inconsequential mistake that I've made. In Chapter 19 (The Dangers of Living) Fritz said that Peter Keskow was dead. That he accidentally impaled himself or something. But in the interview, he's still there. Huh. And I'm too lazy to edit that chapter, so the end of this chapter is my solution to the problem.**

**Also, I'm sorry for not updating sooner, but I really wanted to update on my birthday... which is today... and now I'm 14. So I would have updated sooner, and then uploaded chapter 24 today, but I couldn't finish 24. So that's how it works, I guess, in my one-track mind.**

**Thanks to all the reviewers, you make my day(s)! And here's the chapter!  
**

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Chapter 23: Let the Games Begin!

"What about you, boy? You got anything to say? You're the mentor here."

I study the walls, the carpet, my fingers – anything but the two figures standing across the room from me. I made it back to the twelfth floor to find Madge and Fritz getting last-minute advice from Haymitch and Effie. Mostly Effie. I wonder if, in Haymitch's position, I would be just as loathe to get attached to my tributes. I certainly haven't learned the lesson yet, I think, remembering last night's kiss.

"Uh – run fast, don't join in at the Cornucopia. Find somewhere safe to stay and try not to be noticed, but be ready to defend yourself." I look at them, both blonde and blue-eyed and lightly built, so similar to another tribute. "Try to win." I barely succeed in keeping my voice steady.

Both Madge and Fritz nod. Effie dabs at her eyes, more emotional than I've ever seen her. "Off to bed, then," she says. "Get some rest."

I meander down the hall toward my own room, behind the cousins, wondering exactly what I've been thinking. How on earth did I get myself into this? Plutarch's words come back to me, his order not to tell either of the tributes about the plan, about how they might not die after all.

"Hey, Fritz," I call out at the last minute.

"Hmm?"

I hesitate. It's quite possibly a rude question, but I have to know. "Is your sister really sick?"

He laughs. The sound is strained, but still humorous. "I don't have a sister. You have to play the audience, right?"

"Right." I watch him vanish, seeing him in a new, more appreciative light.

"Peeta?"

Just as I'm passing Madge's door, it opens. She still wears her interview costume, which sparkles in the dim light.

"Yeah?"

"I just want to say – thanks for everything, I guess. And please think about what I said on the train."

"What?" With everything that's happened this past week, I have no clue what she's talking about.

"Remember? About Fritz. Please, _please_ pick him. You have to help him survive."

Ah. I feel the desperation again. "My answer's still no. I won't aid one of you over the other."

"Then I'll go to Haymitch." She tries to push past me, and I block her way.

"I promise you that I will help him. I never said that I wouldn't. It's just that I'll be helping you as well. Why can't you see what you're doing? You're giving up, Madge! You can't do that!"

"I'm not giving up." Her voice is suddenly quiet and hard, like muffled steel. She's almost a head shorter than me, but her stare has a physical weight.

"Looks to me like you are." I'm reminded suddenly of the way Katniss glared at me earlier today.

"No, I'm not! I'll _never_ give up!"

"Well, then you don't have to go asking to die, do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Madge's voice grows louder, though it's still reasonable.

"Just that you—"

"That I'm going to die anyway? If that's what you mean, if it's what you're thinking, then say it! Don't make me guess at how you don't even care!" She's fully yelling now, but unlike Katniss, it's completely unjustified. I don't blame her, though. I remember only too well the fear of this night, the weight over my chest and the way my lungs wouldn't work properly.

With a look of absolute terror and rage, Madge slams the door. I hurry to my room and sit on the edge of the bed, thinking of how everything was so much simpler when I was a town boy and Madge was the mayor's daughter and Katniss was ruling the Seam. None of us had such pressing concerns as we do now, even though I don't eat stale bread and Madge has finally gotten to visit the Capitol and Katniss doesn't have to worry about the Reaping. How could everything have changed so quickly? Nobody's content anymore, though by all rights we should be basking in the glory of having our dreams fulfilled.

The answer's simple: Prim's dead.

Morning comes with a pounding head and traitorous stomach. I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm hunched over the toilet, vomiting what must be everything I've eaten yesterday. When there's nothing left to come up, I can't stop shaking and heaving, sick with worry.

I'm not ill, I know, and there's nothing to prompt a hangover. It's just the overwhelming knowledge that twenty-four kids will be fighting for their lives today, and there's nothing I can do about it.

In the main room I realize how late it is – I've slept in. With a black storm cloud over my head I pick at breakfast. The usual extravagant meal of indescribable delicacies and candied fruits is lost on me. I taste nothing. When Effie comes in, I'm lucky. She picks up on my mood and is quiet.

Haymitch doesn't show up until about eight-thirty, just fifteen minutes before the Games start. We're about to leave for the Sponsor Center. He staggers through the door in the same clothes he wore yesterday, wrinkled and dirty, with a full liquor bottle clutched in his hand. I can tell it's not the first one he's had today.

"Horrible day," he slurs, swaying.

"Yeah. Let's go." I'm in no way inclined to discuss exactly what degree of atrocity it is today, how he's perfectly right and how I wish more than almost anything in the world that I could tell someone _good morning_.

Haymitch takes a step toward the elevators and drops his bottle, which shatters. Yelling obscenities, he tries to pick up the fragments of glass himself, slicing his hands. The sight of the blood makes me want to throw up again, such a reminder of what's to come. Instead I shove him away from the mess and an Avox hurries to get rid of it. A good ten minutes later, with Haymitch's hands bandaged, fresh clothes, and a new drink – much to Effie's disapproval – we're out the door.

Everything is shut down for the opening day of the Games, so we have to walk. If we'd left on time, we'd be able to walk and arrive with five minutes to spare. But as it is, we're running and have only one minute to catch our breath just inside the doors.

We take our seats, Haymitch and I at the usual table and Effie with the other escorts, and turn to the enormous televisions. They're showing all the tributes' training scores and clips from the interviews. Claudius Templesmith, the eternal announcer of the Games, comments on each one and speculates about how they'll do.

And then we're all staring at a jungle-like forest, not tropical but so thick with vines and fauna that I can see how there'll be difficulty moving quickly. There's only a few seconds to take this in before the tributes begin to rise from the ground, standing on their metal plates like statues frozen in terror. The first person we see is Orb Hetair from District 1. The cameras show each person in order of their district, so by the time 12 rolls around, I'm practically as nervous as the tributes themselves.

Everyone wears black from head to toe. Tight-fitting pants and sleeveless shirts with belts connecting the ensemble. There are no shoes. Girls with long hair have bands to keep it out of their faces, which are all identical masks of dread.

Fritz stands stock-still and it's plain from the expression on his face that he's just as horrified as everyone else, just as consumed and overwhelmed by the fear. His eyes dart around frantically, trying to take in as much as possible in the little time he has.

Madge seems calmer, at least outwardly. She gazes at her surroundings with a composed, almost nonchalant manner. She looks impassive but I can see the calculating way that she observes everything.

The actual arena, though – that's enough to give anyone nightmares, not just the ones who have to live in it. It's forested, that's plain, but it's unlike anything I've ever seen. The trees are gigantic, at least fifty feet around and too tall to see the sky. The tributes are as insignificant as ants when the cameras show the aerial view, though the Cornucopia still gleams like a miniature sun. The foliage blocks out enough light that the horn is easily the brightest thing visible, while everything else is cast into a murky, gloomy half-light.

The ground is pretty much nonexistent, being clogged by twisted roots that protrude bulbously from the earth. What little space is left over is taken up by thorny-looking briars and shrubs and, of course, the supplies overflowing from the Cornucopia. From what I can see, there's no grass. Just a gravelly dirt that probably has sharp rocks scattered every few steps.

"Ladies and Gentleman, let the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games begin!" announces Claudius Templesmith, and the sixty seconds start ticking away.

There's not much to do while the tributes are contemplating escape plans, so the cameras cut to each person's face while we wait. That's why it makes everyone jump – someone in the room screams – when there's a loud explosion off-screen.

Then we see a cloud of flame engulfing one of the metal tribute plates, the one where Peter Keskow of District 7 previously stood, just seconds before. We all know what's happened, though it's rarer than summer snow. He must have stepped to early, or dropped his token, or something else that hasn't happened in other Games. Whatever he's done, however the mistake was made, the cannon tells us all too clearly that he's dead.

Twig Keskow, Peter's sister, makes a choked noise that might be a scream, or a sob, caught in her throat. She's undeniably paler but otherwise she doesn't react. I can't even begin to conceive the pain she must be feeling. To see your own sibling gone, blown to bits, right before your eyes, unable to help or stop it or do anything at all… it's unimaginable.

Claudius announces his demise, as if we couldn't tell already, with Peter's picture up on the screen. There's a loud stream of cursing from a victor somewhere behind me, followed by a quick shushing noise. I can still hear the woman muttering under her breath, enlarging my vocabulary considerably as she does so.

And while everyone's still trying to wrap their minds around the sudden, unexpected tragedy, the gong rings out.


	24. Chapter 24: Predictably Brutal

Chapter 24: Predictably Brutal

There's a sudden flurry of movement as almost all the tributes dash from their plates. They head towards the Cornucopia, scrambling over the slippery roots to reach it. A few – Madge, Fritz, Ahna Nielson from 5 and Lynna Rassorvani from 6 – turn tail and disappear into the thick vines. All the cameras are focused on the bloodbath, though. Just like usual.

The tributes from One, Three, Four, Seven, Eight, and Nine all gravitate toward each other, and I remember that they're the "rebel army," as Plutarch said. But Lazarus and Elvorix Payya of District 2 don't join in. What're they doing? They're in on the Plan, I know, but they aren't discussing.

Then I realize what's going on, just how brilliant those two are. It's imperative that the Capitol citizens think that this is nothing but the usual Games. Standing in a huddle off to the side, not fighting, not displaying even the slightest animosity – it'd be obvious to anyone that something's up.

The whispering tributes appear to realize this, too, and quickly step away from one another, but the damage is done. The tributes that aren't in on the plot are confused. Their weapons are held loosely in their hands, watching the exchange. And that's when little Elvorix darts for an axe, swings it around, and neatly lops off Ella Hurston's head.

Everything spirals into further chaos. Friend becomes foe, the ground is slippery with blood, and the screams echo in the unnaturally still air. Paisley Tussah from 8 trips over Ella's body and she's very nearly killed by her own cousin, who's slashing at anything that moves. She rolls out of the way a second before his sword would have skewered her shoulder. In a flash she's back on her feet.

"Paisley!" Frieze gasps. "I'm so sorry! I—"

"Watch out!" she shrieks, and he whirls around just in time to jump to avoid Zale Tanager's knife that's swiping at his ankles. But maybe he doesn't jump high enough, or is a second too late, or something, because he yelps as a large cut opens on the bottom of his foot. He hops on the other leg, clutching Paisley for support. It would be funny if not for the blood and general macabre horror of the scene.

Zale, seeing that his attempt has failed, abruptly clambers to a standing position. He's bleeding heavily from a wound on his forehead, and has to keep blinking the red out of his eyes. In the middle of all the battles going on around them, he offers his hand to the District 8 tributes. "Allies?" he says.

They don't answer, just stare at him like he's mad. Frieze makes a stab toward him, which Zale dodges easily. "Okay, fine. But if you want to kill me, you're gonna have to do better than that," he says. "I've got a lot of practice climbing trees." Frieze lunges again, but this time Paisley grabs his arm and stops him.

"Wait," she says. "He'd be a good ally." She turns to Zale. "Guess you're in."

While all this has been going on, other small wars have been waged. Elvorix and Lazarus, the initiators of this unplanned battle, fight side by side to eliminate Nathaniel Rassorvani of District 6. He's got hold of a black, heavy-looking mace and is swinging it from side to side like a berserker. His expression, though, is focused and sane. I guess he's just unaccustomed to the weapon. As I watch, he hefts his mace and cuts out, running like there's no tomorrow. Which there might not be. Lazarus looks to his tiny District partner, seemingly for advice on what to do next, and she shrugs. Her eyes say, _there's no point in following him for now_.

Orb and Elegance Hetair – District 1 – are rummaging through the Cornucopia. They've already got full packs over their shoulders and are selecting weapons. They don't look happy about their task, but a grim determination has settled over their features. With one last look around at the ring of fighters, they, too, disappear into the trees.

Bridger Nielson from District 5 is fighting it out with Twig Keskow. They're both severely wounded. Twig has a long gash on her shin, and another cut on her hand. She's limping. Bridger's shoulder actually has an arrow protruding from it – and Twig isn't holding a bow. Within a second of my realization, another arrow whizzes through the air, sticking in Twig's throat. She collapses with a gurgling sound that makes me want to vomit again.

With the immediate danger averted, Bridger locates the archer. Finch Tanager has a bow. She nocks it and draws back the string. Bridger's breathing hard and I can tell he's not going to be able to move out of the way in time. And then another figure comes crashing out of nowhere and sends Finch stumbling to the side. It's not enough to stop the arrow, but it does change its course. With a yell of pain, Bridger grabs his knee, where a feathered shaft emerges from the flesh. He blinks in relief, though, that it wasn't his heart.

Finch's attacker advances on _him_ now, and it's Marlene, the girl from 4. But Finch isn't dead yet – she staggers up behind Marlene and raises the hammer – and Bridger calls out in alarm. Marlene ducks, and the two knives she's holding find their ways to Finch's feet. She screams and strikes at Marlene's head again, but the District 4 girl has already moved, and Finch finds herself alone with a hammer and only eight toes. Left alone, she hobbles off into the colossal forest.

Bridger and Marlene are fighting as a team now, driving Fuze Negolin of District 3 back towards the horn. She's up against the metal and I can tell that she hasn't got much time left, when suddenly she's just – gone. There's an automatic slow-motion replay, and then I see what has happened.

It _was_ very fast. Cordin Titrus, Fuze's District partner, had been on top of the Cornucopia. He reached his hand down and, wow, he's got some pretty strong arms – he's hoisted her up beside him. So now they're about as safe as they can get without leaving the bloodbath altogether.

But maybe not – Rachelle Ehmy from 9 is scaling the horn, her face bloody and streaked with sweat. At the foot of the horn I see Naylor Orman from 4 prostrate in the dirt. His throat is slit. And Rachelle prepares her garrote again, moving stealthily towards Cordin.

Fuze lunges forward and grabs Rachelle's arm, breaking it with one firm twist. Crying out, Rachelle topples from the Cornucopia, fortunately landing on a pack full of who knows what which breaks her fall. Pale as death, she takes the pack with her good hand and staggers into the trees.

I think of how badly Plutarch's plan has blown up in his face. I hadn't really expected it to work, but this unrestrained bloodshed is worse than I'd thought, though really it's just predictably brutal. It's different, seeing it on a screen, rather than living it. Somehow it's even worse. But even Plutarch, a _Gamemaker_, should be able to see that this is what life-threatening situations do to people.

_Of course,_ I think, _sometimes it makes people go crazy. Like Prim._

I return my focus to the screen, tryin to get rid of the memories. As if that's possible.

There are only seven tributes left in this relative clearing now: Paisley and Freize Tussah, Zale Tanager, Marlene Orman, Bridger Neilson, Fuze Negolin, and Cordin Titrus. Everyone else is either running away or dead.

From their perch, Fuze and Cordin watch Paisley, Freize, and Zale team up with Marlene and Bridger. This new alliance makes the District 3 kids more than a little uneasy, especially when they surround the horn. Zale calls up to them.

"You look like birds." Not exactly quote-worthy, but it makes Cordin laugh.

"Caw, caw!" he says, making a face. "You gonna come up here and get us?" I know for a fact that neither of them has a weapon – Fuze dropped hers while fighting – but I don't know if the others do.

"We don't have to," says Zale, brandishing the bow taken from where his cousin dropped it. "We can just—"

Zale breaks off as an enormous crashing sound reaches them. It's coming from the forest, and with all the vines, it's impossible to see what's making it. For a few seconds they all stand, frozen, until Marlene yells.

"Go, go, go!" She starts running away from the noise, and the rest of her group is quick to follow. Fuze and Cordin take off in a slightly different direction, scrambling down the horn as fast as they can. Then only Bridger is still behind, apparently unable to move for the two arrows in his knee and shoulder. He stares around frantically, waiting, waiting—

And then the enormous creature, two times the height of a man, breaks out of the forest, and Bridger screams.

* * *

**A/N:**

**How's that for a cliffie?**

**Hey, strangers! I'm still alive! It feels so _repetitive_, saying once again that I'm sorry for disappearing like that. But I _am_ sorry.**

**You're not going to like hearing this...**

**I'm doing Script Frenzy for the month of April, so this will most likely be the last chapter until May 1st. I'll do my best to write a little bit before Friday, but no promises. Look for my coming on the dawn of May that day, look to the East!**

**Or wherever. Anyone who knows that quote WITHOUT Google (or with Google) let me know!  
**

**Sorry, again.**

**~Ripred**


	25. Chapter 25: Epic

**A/N: I'm still here! I couldn't leave you guys with that. But now I really will be gone until May, simply because I have math homework to do.**

**I'm incredibly happy with this chapter. I don't know why. Maybe it's that I didn't completely fail with _dialogue_ - yes, I spelled it right! Sweet success!**

**Anyways, I have successfully planned out about half of the story, as well as the ending, so now I just need to write it out. Expect an update in the first week of May.**

**Enjoy the chapter!**

**Oh, and the chapter name goes to VividlyVisceral, another user, I read her "epic" prompt story from Starvation and the bear here is inspired by that. Thanks, Vivid!**

**~Ripred**

* * *

Chapter 25: Epic

It's a bear. That much is obvious. But it's like no bear that I've ever seen, with glossy black fur and claws like knives. It opens its maw and roars, sending strange birds flocking from the trees, revealing rows of razor teeth.

Bridger goes stock still, watching the bear as it watches him. While the beast is coming closer, Bridger begins to back away. Slowly, because of his leg. He can't help whimpering slightly, though that might be the fear rather than pain, or some combination of the two.

"Go away," he tells the bear, quietly but firmly. "Leave me alone. I won't hurt you." He drops his pack and the bear moves suddenly. Bridger stiffens and then relaxes slightly as it does nothing else. The beast's beady eyes track his every move. "I am not a threat. I won't hurt you," Bridger repeats. "Just leave now."

And then, to my amazement, the bear does. Takes a few sniffs, turns around, and lumbers away.

After a few minutes of standing frozen, Bridger collapses with a _huff_ of relief. He's visibly shaking and I don't blame him. Beside me, Haymitch mutters, "Smart kid."

I sneak a look at the rest of the mentors and escorts. They're all leaning backwards in their chairs with baffled expressions. A few sponsors are lingering around the District 5 table. And then – someone in the shadows, someone who shouldn't be here.

_Katniss_.

She's watching me. I catch her eye and raise my eyebrows, asking the obvious. She nods, curling one finger slightly in a beckoning motion. I stand and hurry towards the supply closet, which she's standing next to, and everyone is too riveted to care. Behind me, I hear multiple cannons sound, signaling that the initial fighting is over. There are only three. Who knew that the mayors' relatives would be such good fighters?

Once we're both in the tunnel and heading down, I turn to her. "What now?" I ask, fearing the worst.

"Plutarch says we have to work together now," she answers.

I try to push away the excitement. "He does?"

"Yeah. He's Gamemaker, so he's really busy right now, and it's up to us."

"Busy killing kids."

"Well, yes," she agrees unhappily. "But he's trying to figure out a way to get a hovercraft in there at some point."

I sigh. "That won't be easy. You know they're all going savage now, don't you?"

"I saw that. I don't know what he expected to happen. It's always like this." She hesitates. "I think it always will be."

I shake my head. "No, you can't think like that. Nothing's going to get better if you don't even try!" We walk the rest of the way in silence, but inside I'm astounded. How can she not believe that this is pointless? I mean, _she's_ the one who came to the Capitol, after all! Why'd she do that if she didn't believe in it?

Katniss leads me to a different room than the last time, with multiple tables overflowing with maps. I look around at the holders on the walls, which also have rolls of paper sticking out of them. "So, what are we doing here?"

"Plutarch says I have to teach you stuff." She says this like it's the worst possible fate.

"…Stuff about…?" I have to drag every word out of her.

"About District 13," she huffs. It's now that I realize, she still doesn't trust me. Maybe she no longer hates me quite as much as before, but we're not friends. And I'm just being stupid expecting it.

"Okay. What first?"

Katniss pulls a map toward herself, sitting down in a chair. I sit next to her, but not unduly close. The map is mainly black and white, but with red and blue highlights. "This is an aerial view of the District before the Dark Days," she says. Pointing, she begins to explain. "This was the Justice Building, and of course that was in the town square, with all the shops. The town spread out here," – she indicates a large area of the map – "and then there was another neighborhood. Kind of like the Seam." She pauses, staring through the map, and I wonder if maybe she's homesick. "There was a fence encircling the whole District," she says, suddenly snapping back to attention. "Look, there's the line."

"I see it," I say. "What's the red for?"

"That's where the graphite mines were," she says. "There weren't – aren't – a lot of them, because District 13 was actually more of a nuclear experimentation facility than a mining District. You see more gems than graphite in the Capitol. But there were a few, of course, just to keep up appearances. And because the Capitol women are fond of diamonds."

"So?"

"So there's a machine in District 1 that can turn graphite into diamonds."

I search my mind for anything to alleviate the tense mood in the room. Unable to think of anything else, I try for a joke. "You know, if you put enough pressure on coal, it turns into pearls."

She ignores this. "Anyways, there were a few graphite mines. But then these little blue symbols," – she points out several – "were entries into the underground nuclear testing labs."

"And that's where all the people are now, right?" I guess. "Underground?"

Katniss nods. "They've expanded in the past seventy-five years, and now there's a whole city. They've been able to increase their population steadily until about ten years ago. There was a massive pox epidemic… about half the kids were wiped out, and a lot of the adults are infertile. They need all the rebels they can get."

She moves on to another map, this one much sparsely detailed than the first. "This is District 13 as it is today. It's a cross-section, like a chart of all the levels. See, the first level is mainly living compartments, but there are a few hovercraft docks. When we bring the tributes there, we'll use those.

"Levels two through five are pretty much all compartments. They don't vary in size. Everything is exactly the same." She sounds bitter and resentful, but also somehow – wistful? I wonder what her time there was like. "Below that, there are the kitchens, the communal dining area, and the hospital. There are small medical stations on every floor, but long-term patients stay on the sixth.

"Then there's Special Defense," Katniss says. "I'm not allowed to tell you what's in there."

"But you do _know_," I say.

Her eyes narrow. "Yes." She quickly keeps talking, as if she's said too much. As if she's regretting bringing me down here in the first place, and wants to get it all over with as soon as possible. "The lowest levels are the bunkers, where there's enough room for the entire population, should the Capitol attack with missiles. They're kept stocked and ready for immediate use at all times."

"So, what would happen if the bunkers were in use? What would life be like?"

Katniss sighs, like I'm being incredibly stupid and dense. "There would be a very rigid schedule and every family would be assigned a compartment, just like the ones that they normally live in."

"How long would that last?"

"Do I look like an expert on nukes to you?"

"No," I say, "but you've been to District 13. Not me."

She doesn't answer immediately. "My guess is, they'd be there for at least a few days. To make sure the coast was clear."

"How do they live like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they're always underground. How does that work? I mean, how do they stay sane?" I figure that, with an arena and a few murders under my belt, I know all about insanity.

"Every other day, there are rotating schedules for going aboveground for an hour."

"One hour of sunlight every two days?" Suddenly, the weight of the city above me seems crushing.

Katniss doesn't seem sympathetic. She traces a street on the map with one finger. "I haven't gone outside in a month and a half."

A strained silence ensues, and I notice the bags under her eyes, how she's nothing but bones. She's so pale, except for her scar.

"What happens if the Capitol finds out about this?" I ask to change the subject.

"About what?"

"Everything," I say. "The Plan. The rebels. The tunnels." _You,_ I think.

"Then we die," she says bluntly.

"And you're okay with that." It's not a question, but she answers anyways.

"I didn't come here to stay alive," she says.

"Why _did_ you come?"

"You don't want to know that." She busies herself with putting the maps away, rolling them into tubes and stuffing them into holders on the walls.

"Actually, yes I do."

She hesitates for a moment, running her hand over the glossy back of a map. Snapping the band against the material. Avoiding my eyes. Finally she takes a deep breath. "Peeta – I came to the Capitol to kill you."


	26. Chapter 26: The Mockingjay

Chapter 26: The Mockingjay

"Oh." It's all I can think of to say. I shouldn't be surprised, and I guess I'm not, but there's really no way around this very awkward silence.

"I said you didn't want to hear it," Katniss reminds me. This unfreezes me.

"Why _didn't_ you kill me?" I ask. It's the only question left to ask, really.

"I don't know!" She slams her hand down on the table, making me jump. "I just – couldn't. I don't know why not. I wasn't able to."

Katniss, unable to kill something? That can't be right. I laugh slightly, and it occurs to me that I'm taking this news very well.

"It's not funny," she grumbles. "You still deserve to die." In a smaller voice, she adds, "I do, too."

I sigh, no longer amused. She's right. This isn't funny. "We've been through this before, remember? You're not guilty of anything." Then I stop. I don't know anything about her. How would I know what she has and hasn't done?

Katniss stiffens suddenly, and I'm guessing I've touched a nerve as she hurriedly shoves the rest of the maps into their holders. "Okay. We're done with this." She turns back to me, not looking at me directly. "It's time for you to be getting back. You don't want to miss the Games, I'm sure."

Her sardonic tone gets to me like nothing else has, but I don't let myself react. "I bet Plutarch has more for me to do than just this." It takes effort to keep my voice calm. I loathe the fact, but I actually do want to be watching the Games. I need to know if Madge is still alive.

"Ugh!" Katniss lets out a wordless, frustrated noise. "Why do you have to be so difficult, Peeta?"

"I'm not trying to be."

"I know that," she snaps. "That's why you're so infuriating."

I roll my eyes. "What would you like me to do?" I ask, hoping she doesn't say "die" or something to that effect.

She fidgets with a spare rubber band for a map. Stretching it out, she says, "I want you… to tell me… I want you to tell me the truth."

"About…?"

"About everything. I want – I _need_ to know how everything has ended up like this. How did this happen?"

"You're not making any sense," I tell her.

She thinks for a moment before answering. "What you said in the interview. About me. Was that true?"

I can see her blushing. I think I might be doing the same thing. "Yes," I admit.

Katniss nods. "And then the bread. Why?"

"What bread?" I ask, and then remember. A night long ago with rain, hunger, and pain. "Oh. That. I think you already know."

"I want you to say it."

"Fine." I lean against the wall. "I burned the bread because I don't like to see people dying in my backyard. Because I loved you, even then. And because my mother would have made me clean up your body if you _had_ died, and I didn't think I could have handled that."

Katniss looks uncomfortable. "Your mother, does she still…?" She trails off uncertainly, embarrassed, but I know what she wants to say.

I laugh, perhaps louder than is called for, to deaden the pain that still lingers. Trace my finger across my left cheekbone. I imagine the phantom blow again, cracking across my face, the ringing in my ears. "This?" She nods meekly. Meek. It's such an unusual expression for her. "At times," I tell her truthfully. "Not so much now that my brothers and I are taller than her. But yes. She still…" I leave my sentence hanging, too, finding it difficult to say the words.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Why? It's not your fault."

She doesn't answer, but continues with the subject of the bread. "The next day, I tried to thank you. I couldn't find the words." She tugs on her braid. "So… thanks."

"No problem." I pause. "You picked a dandelion, right?" I still remember that day, though it's grown hazy over time.

"Yes."

"Can I ask you a question?" I say abruptly.

A small smile flickers across Katniss's face. "You just did."

I grin, but the expression fades quickly. "How'd you get your scar?"

She raises her hand to the angry red mark. Following the line with feather-light fingers, she says, "I landed in a shattered window during a fight with the guards as we got to Thirteen."

"We?" I already have an idea of whom she's talking about.

"I think you know," she says, repeating my own words.

"I want you to say it."

She looks away. "Gale. His mother. His brothers Vick and Rory. His sister Posy."

"And they're all still there in District 13?"

"What's it to you?" she snaps. Then, "Never mind. I can guess."

I cast around for a different topic to soothe my breaking heart. This seems to happen to me a lot. "Um. So, what else did Plutarch want us to do?"

Katniss rubs the back of her neck, more tired than I've ever seen her. "He said to show you how to fly a hovercraft."

Well. This ought to be fun.

What a lie. I mean, it starts out great. This lever turns the craft on. This button puts on a burst of speed, but don't use it unless absolutely necessary. These levers here are used to steer, since they move from side to side. Use the pedal to guide the landing process. The funny thing is, the instructions all make sense.

But then Katniss flips on a simulation screen, and I have to use a touch-sensitive dashboard that's connected to the screen. Whatever I do is reflected there. And you know what? When placed in a believably life-or-death situation, I freeze up. My mind goes blank and I can't concentrate. After about half an hour of this, I think Katniss is ready to murder me.

"Move, move, move…" she mutters, hovering over my shoulder, staring at the screen as a missile hurtles toward me. Lo and behold, I yank the correct lever, and successfully avoid the danger.

"Not bad, huh?" I ask, twisting around to grin at her.

"Look out!" she nearly yells, and I whip back into position – too late to stop the second weapon of mass destruction from decimating my craft.

"This is so stupid," she fumes, glaring at the wall. "You're hopeless. We're all going to die."

"Look, why don't you drive the thing when we get out there?" I demand, thoroughly fed up.

"Because," she says through gritted teeth, "I'm not the Mockingjay."

This gives me pause. "The what?"

Her tone grows softer – still angry, but as though she likes what she's talking about. "A bird—"

"I know it's a bird," I interrupt. "I mean, who _is_ the Mockingjay if you aren't? And how does that have anything to do with the rebellion?" I think of another question. "Why _Mockingjay,_ anyways? Why not robin or blue jay or something?"

"The word's _Mockingjay_ because that was… was P-Prim's pin. The one Madge gave to her; the bird on it was a mockingjay. It's connected to the rebellion because Prim's become a martyr for the cause. They're rebelling for her. The Mockingjay is their rallying point now, the person they look to for guidance. Like a president, only without the sadistic disposition."

"Who's the Mockingjay, then?" I ask.

"You. You're the Mockingjay."

* * *

**A/N: Yeah, yeah, lame ending, I know. At least I updated, which I've told myself I _shall not do_ until May. But, lucky you, I have soooooooo little willpower.**

**Perhaps one more update before May, but don't count on it. I hope you like this.**

**AND**

**It's starting to feel like summer! Yay!**


	27. Chapter 27: Sparrow

**A/N: Okay, a longish wait, but it's finally here! I've been so _busy_. Script Frenzy, my grandpa's hospitalization, more Script Frenzy (which I'm behind on), Unthinkable (the FF), and also life.**

**Not necessarily in that order.**

**Anyways... this will be the last chapter before the _real_ plot starts. Heheh. I've been working up to it.**

* * *

Chapter 27: Sparrow

Unbelievable.

Just impossible.

"You've got to be kidding me," I say.

Katniss shakes her head. "I wish."

Even as completely blown away as I am, this is irritating. I've tried to be patient, but I can only take so much. "What, you don't think I can lead?"

She makes a kind of _tuh_ noise, a snort-laugh thing that's too human to come from her. "Based on your performance," she says, gesturing to the simulation screen, "I'm going to have to say that I don't."

My face reddens against my will. She is so _frustrating_. "It's not like this whole thing hinges on my ability to fly a hovercraft," I say.

"Maybe not," she concedes, "but you can bet that when we rescue the tributes from the arena, we'll be shot at. There will be Capitol soldiers doing their best to make sure that we die. And if you don't know how to steer, how to brake, how to accelerate – I hope you like torture."

"You just said they'd kill us."

"Kill us, torture us, what's the difference? We'll never be the same again, whatever they do."

"_But_," I say, "we might get out. Things might go smoothly. You're too pessimistic."

Katniss ignores this last bit. "You don't understand," she says, forcefully, slowly. "The fate of our entire country hangs on the way this turns out. You aren't taking it seriously. This is life or death, and you're laughing about it."

I stand abruptly, fed up. "Right." I have never, _ever_ been this angry before. "So, since I'm so dense, you'll have to correct me if I'm wrong about this." I make no effort to mask my rage. "What you're saying is, I have been to an arena and back, watched children die without being able to stop it, had to live with myself and wonder how in the world I'm going to make it up to you – all of this, and you think I don't take it seriously. Is that it?"

She doesn't say anything, just stares at me, shocked. I've surprised even myself with this outburst. But I'm nearly too upset to speak now, and can only muster one more sentence. "I thought so."

Without meeting her eyes, I stalk past her and into the hall. I'm about halfway back to the Sponsor Center tunnel entrance when I hear her running to catch up, but I increase my speed as well, and I know she won't come out so soon. So I fling myself down in the chair next to Haymitch and try to focus. Needless to say, it's not easy. Everything that's happened to me in the past year keeps sidetracking me.

Finally the volume is upped, and I'm vaguely aware of the Careers making camp on the screen as trays of food are wheeled into the Sponsor room. People begin talking quietly, and Haymitch mutters, "How'd it go?"

"Wonderful," I mutter. "Absolutely perfect." I savagely spear a tomato on my fork.

Haymitch raises his eyebrows but says nothing. Effie totters over to our table on her spindly heels, so smiley and bubbly, it makes me want to yell. She makes a vague comment about Bridger's bear, tuts over the color of the tablecloth, and moves on.

On the screen, Madge, Fritz, and Lynna Rassorvani – District 6 – pick their way carefully around the bulbous roots covering the ground of the arena, making their way towards a small lake. They're all a little dirty, a little scratched up, but really not injured. Madge is carrying a long, thin knife, probably meant to be slipped inside a boot. Speaking of footwear – the feet of all three tributes are sliced up from the rocks. I take that back about not being injured. They're limping badly.

Everything is silent. Fritz is the first to reach the water and bends over, taking a lengthy drink and sending ripples across the surface. He's so beyond worrying about bacteria and I don't blame him. I remember all to clearly my own time in the arena, how my priorities were rearranged. How my own life was no longer the most important one.

Fritz straightens up and turns to Lynna and Madge, who are scrambling down the steep bank. They're still a few feet away. "It's nice and cold," he says, and that's when the tentacles shoot out of the lake.

Water sprays everywhere, so the screens are chaotic and it's difficult to make out what's happening. But I can tell that Madge is unable to get a firm grip on her knife, which flies off into the trees. She and the others are picked up – yes, actually lifted from the ground – and then everything is still again.

The silence goes on and on. Nobody is eating anymore. We all stare at the screens, holding our breath as if we are the ones trapped underwater. A cannon blasts, vibrating in my bones since the volume is higher than usual to cover the sound of forks on plates. But now, with everyone waiting, all it does is create a hollow resonation. I wonder, with numbness, who it belongs to.

With a sound like the ocean's waves, the three tributes are literally thrown up onto the shore. It's obvious right away that Lynna is dead. Her neck is broken, her head tilted at a grotesque angle. Madge and Fritz lie a few yards apart, and Fritz is facedown. After a small pause, Madge drags herself over to her cousin and pulls him onto his back. His skin is very pale.

"Fritz?" she asks, too loudly. She claps her hands to her ears in a panic.

Fritz's eyes blink half-open and he coughs once. His blood spatters Madge's face. She's crying, keening like a sweet, sad sparrow's song. Beside me, Haymitch swears under his breath. The oath has barely left his mouth when the second cannon booms.

"No! Fritz, _no!_" Madge screams. Of course it doesn't occur to her to keep her voice down. The last time someone I loved died, I might have screamed, too. I was all alone in the arena by then.

But Madge isn't. The footsteps come running, and only when the tributes break from the trees does she look up. There's a wild, savage look in her eyes. She darts to her feet, surprisingly steady for her condition, and streaks toward the newcomers. It's Zale Tanager and Frieze and Paisley Tussah, who scatter to avoid her.

Madge charges Zale, who ducks around and twists her arms up so that she can't move. Frieze and Paisley come forward again, warily.

"I don't want to hurt you," says Zale. Madge says nothing, doesn't even give any inclination that she's heard.

Paisley looks Madge in the eyes and, once she's certain that Madge is looking back, asks, "Would you like to be allies? You seem resourceful." She doesn't seem to have remembered that Fritz was Madge's cousin.

Madge's eyes widen in horror. I can't guess what she's thinking. But in the next second, it becomes clear to everyone.

"I can't hear you," she says, still too loudly. "I can't hear myself." Her face goes slack with shock. "I can't hear anything!" In her panic, her voice has risen to an incredibly high pitch.

Madge has gone deaf? That's crazy. Too many unexpected things are happening today. I want to turn back the clocks and make it all stop, bring Fritz and Prim back and go back to being a baker's son who can't figure out how to say hi to a girl. Apparently, that's not going to happen.

Several sponsors pack up and leave, looking angry and disappointed.

"Oh," says Paisley, as shocked as everyone else. "Oh, my." She seems at a loss for words. Zale lets go of Madge's arms, and she steps away unsteadily.

Zale bends down, using his finger to trace a word in the damp ground near the lake.

_Allies?_

Madge gives a kind of nod that could very well be a shrug, and looks at Fritz's body lying prone in the mud.

"You go on back to the Training Center," whispers Haymitch next to me. "Watch the rest there."

I shake my head, but he shoves me so that I nearly fall out of my seat. I clutch the table to steady myself, and a small slip of white paper catches my eye, in the spot where Effie grabbed it earlier.

Brow furrowed, I smooth it out and read:

_It starts at midnight._

I pass it to Haymitch, whose eyes narrow in understanding. "Go back to the Center," he orders. "I'll explain."

I don't waste another moment. As I enter the Capitol street, it's raining again.


	28. Chapter 28: Brainless

**A/N: Guess what, guys! I finally finished my script - all 102 pages of it! I could not be happier. By the time the next chapter is up, I _will_ have the link to read it on my profile.**

**Here's the chapter!**

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Chapter 28: Brainless

"Training Center," I snap at the driver of a lone taxi, who has his hat pulled down low. He nods and accelerates out onto the deserted streets.

I am such a mess. A deep vortex of hurt and fear and who knows what else whirls around inside me. I shut my eyes and lean my head back, trying to sort through my tangled emotions.

I am _so angry_ with Katniss. How dare she suggest that I'm not morally strong enough to lead this rebellion? I can't believe it. After all I've done, after all I've been through, she still thinks I can't handle it. Of course, she doesn't exactly have an unbiased point of view towards me. I killed her sister, after all.

I'm hurt, though, that she doesn't see how much I regret it, how much remorse I feel at the thought of my knife in Prim's chest. Does she really see me that way? So cold and unfeeling? I know she does _now_, but before the Games, when the only barrier between us was where we lived – I wonder if she thought better of me then.

And then I'm afraid, of so many things. What was that thing in the lake? Has Madge really gone deaf? What is going to happen tonight, whatever it is that starts at midnight? Of course there's also the constant bother of Katniss hiding right under the President's nose, always on the verge of discovery.

I want to scream, but I settle for hissing a choice word and pinching my finger so hard that I bleed. The pain has a strangely calming effect, like cool water. I'm too tense to actually relax, but I'm not about to punch anyone now.

The driver interrupts my thoughts by stopping the car. We've pulled up near a huge, sprawling building that looks suspiciously like a hangar, with what I think is a launching pad for hovercrafts. Strangely, I get the feeling that we can see the building, but no one inside can see us.

"This isn't the Training Center," I object, and the man in the front seat turns around.

"No kidding, brainless."

I let out a choked little cough, mostly to keep from squeaking something stupid. This isn't a taxi driver. In fact, it's not even a man. This happens to be a woman with wide-spaced eyes and brown hair that looks as though it's been chopped with a dull knife in the dark. On a full-speed train that's come off of its tracks.

"W-who are you?" I demand after I've recovered somewhat.

"I've sat in the same room with you for the past three days," she says. "I thought you might retain a little bit of information. But I guess your skull's too thick for anything to seep through." Her tone is acidic and challenging, like she wants me to strike out so she'll have an excuse to hit me back. "Johanna Mason, District 7," she reminds me.

Now I remember. Not that I recall anything spectacular – just a bunch of drinking and making obscene jokes at the top of her lungs. Some pretty rude hand gestures, too, though I don't think any of them were directed at me.

"And you've brought me here…why?" I say, letting all of my annoyance show in my voice.

"Because Plutarch said to," Johanna says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I must admit, I thought you'd be a little faster on the uptake."

"Well." I wrack my brain for anything to say, anything at all. "Where are we?"

"The hovercraft hangars," she says.

"Oh." Lucky guess. "What for?"

"They don't tell you anything, do they?" Johanna shakes her head and laughs scratchily. "We're hijacking one of 'em."

"I see." Johanna sighs and, rolling her eyes, gets out of the car. I hurry to follow suit and we do a little duck-and-weave thing until we're in the shadows of an alley.

"Here's the plan," says Johanna in the sharp, quick locutions of District 7. "We get in there and find the right one – the pattern is 'first floor, second division, third unit, fourth row, fifth machine.' Then we wait for Plutarch and the rest of the team; they're coming at midnight, and then we're out of here."

"Won't they notice one of the hovercrafts launching without authorization?" I ask, surprised that everything can be summed up so quickly.

"Plutarch has it all worked out," she tells me condescendingly. "No need to bother yourself about it." I step away when she moves to pat my head, which isn't difficult to do seeing as I'm half a foot taller than her.

"One more question," I say. "How do we get to the hovercraft without being discovered? They'll have security cameras in every corner."

"Of course they will," says Johanna, sounding bored. "That's why I've got _this_." She takes a small black gadget out of her shirt – I try not to think of where she pulls it from – and waves it in my face. "All the workers' schedules and a 3-D map of the route we need to take, one without cameras. Used by the people who Snow trusts not to do anything against the law. This baby's the latest in Capitol technology," she says, and there's something in the way she says it that gives me pause. Up until now I've thought of Johanna as brusque and a little insane, but her tone as she tells me that she's got "the latest" bit of machinery isn't gloating or even proud. It's sarcastic. And this is what clues me in to the fact that she hates the Capitol every bit as much as I do, if not more.

"Only it's not made for us, is it?" I guess, knowing full well that the answer is no.

"C'mon," she says. "Time's a-wasting."

Once inside, Johanna consults her gadget – she tells me it's called a Holo – and we creep along the white, nondescript corridors until she halts so abruptly that I nearly walk into her. She waits a few minutes and then keeps going. I'd ask what she stopped for, but isn't the whole point of this to avoid being seen or heard? I hold my tongue.

_First Division_ says a marker next to a branching hallway. Not too much later, we see another marker telling us that we've come to the second division. After checking to make sure that the coast is clear, we dart across the intersection. Here, open space means a greater risk.

Once we're in the relative safety of a two-way passage, Johanna turns to me and issues a whispered command.

"You're wearing shoes? Take 'em off."

I obey without question as Johanna does the same. There isn't time to ask for explanations right now. But when we get to the third unit, a door marked by a chrome plaque, I understand.

Behind the door is a vast, high-ceilinged space reminiscent of the gymnasium in the Training Center. Row upon row of hovercrafts sits waiting for use. And the floor is polished metal, pristine and cold. Anything but bare feet would echo on it like shattering glass.

I count off silently, _one, two, three,_ and Johanna leads me silently down the fourth row until we come to the fifth craft. Like all the others, it's huge, silver, and has the Capitol seal painted on the mechanical doors. There's nothing I notice to make it stand out.

"What now?" I whisper, and cringe as the sound echoes, even though I barely make a sound.

If looks could kill, Johanna's now responsible for my murder. And then chopping my body up into little tiny pieces. She doesn't answer, but draws a key from a skintight pocket on the inside of her sleeve and carefully inserts it into a lock on the door. A little compartment flips open and, after consulting the Holo, Johanna enters a sequence of numbers on the keypad that it reveals.

With an uncomfortably loud _whooshing_ noise, the door slides away. The interior of Hovercraft #451 is much like the outside. Polished chrome surfaces, all gleaming like new.

We climb in, and the door shuts behind us with a definitive _click_.

Johanna promptly sits down on the floor, leaning against the wall. I see what she's doing – staying out of view of the windows – and take a seat on the opposite side of the room.

"So. Breadboy," she says, and I can tell I'm headed for an insult. I try to head her off.

"What time is it?"

"Ten o'clock. How's this last year been?" asks Johanna, undeterred. "Lots of fun, isn't it, being a Victor?"

I sigh, so tired. "Why do you care?"

"Just answer the question."

I ignore her, putting my shoes back on. There's a knot in the laces that doesn't want to come out. I double-tied them this morning, just like always, but nerves made me yank pretty hard. I'm paying for that now.

"Enjoying the food and money?" Pause. "How about the girls? I hear those District 12 wisps love a rich boy. And you've got your pick of them all, don't you?"

Sneaking a peek at Johanna out of the corner of my eye, I see that she's smirking at me. Ugh. She's _enjoying_ this. I pick at the knot.

"What's the matter? If you're worried about choosing between those two, don't bother. I don't care." I'll admit that I told the whole country about my love for Katniss. How she knows about Madge, though, I've got no clue. "Or maybe you're afraid to give away your little sweetheart under the Capitol. I've heard that—"

"Shut up!" I explode, throwing my shoe at her. She catches it with lightning-fast reflexes. "Shut _up_!" I glare at Johanna, just about ready to throw open the hovercraft door and let everyone know we're in here, if my yelling hasn't blown our cover already.

Johanna cackles, picking up my shoe and grabbing a little tiny knife from an ankle sheath. She pulls the laces to the side, holding them taut. In one quick slice, she severs them.

"What are you—?"

Johanna tosses my shoe back at me and darts out, into some other area of the hovercraft. I roll my eyes, but she's already back, holding one of those little dolls that pilots like to use on their dashboards. There was one in the car before the Victory Tour. She does something with the piece of shoelace, too fast for me to pick up on. Then she places it on a little hook in the wall.

I look closely. It's a little miniature noose, perfect down to the last twist of "rope." Johanna blocks my view again. When she moves away, my blood chills.

The doll, still grinning happily, is hanging.

"Hilarious," I say. I realize that I truly detest this girl.

"It wasn't meant to be funny," Johanna says.

"What _was_ it meant to be?" I ask.

"You decide."

"I think you should stick to drinking," I tell her. "Philosophy really doesn't seem to be your strong point." I try to change the subject, not because I'm curious. "Where'd you learn the knots?" I know Johanna might have visited the knot-tying station in training for her Games, but that was years ago. Nobody _tries_ to remember what they learned in the Games.

"Finnick Odair. The Victor from District 4." Johanna notices my raised eyebrows. "It's a nice thing to know."

"Right. If you want to die," I say.

"Hark who's talking," Johanna says, with an expression that I might think is almost sympathetic, if she cared about anyone but herself. "It's not like you haven't considered it. I watched last year's Games."

This is very bad. Johanna's words dredge up memories buried behind only weak barriers. I've tried to forget what happened in the arena, pretend none of it ever existed. That it was a nightmare. And the months after that, too, when I have to admit that I truly did not want to live. If there was ever a time that I hated life more than the last day in the arena, that interminable stretch of winter was definitely it.

Of course, I could never really have given up. Or could I? I think of how weak I was, how little I ate and slept. The bags under my eyes. The tremors in my hands. The nightmares that kept me up every night, screaming at the walls of my bedroom.

"You don't know anything about me," I say, more harshly than I intend. I need to block out these thoughts. They will literally kill me if I don't.

"Sure I don't." Johanna stretches out on the floor, still holding her miniature knife. "Get some sleep if you can. You'll want it later."

This sudden change from antagonize to leader only confuses me more. I don't sleep, but try to re-tie my shoe on my foot. I'm only working with half the proper amount of lace at this point, so, needless to say, it's not easy. In fact, I'm unable to get even a working knot. After a few minutes, I discard the useless thing and hope that I don't come across any sharp rocks.

I lean against the wall, realizing that I am, in fact, exhausted. The stress of the past few days – worrying about Madge, Fritz, Katniss, Rosey Snow, and Prim all at once – has done nothing for my health.

With a flicker of frustration, I give in to sleep.

**A/N: Also - if you want to be my favorite and get a free (virtual) cookie, head on over to the Starvation website and nominate one of my stories for their Quarter Quell! It can only be a _complete_ story, though, so this one won't work. But "My Dreams Smell of Roses" would!**

**The link to the site is on my profile, up near the top with the other links.**


	29. Chapter 29: I Must Still be Dreaming

**A/N: Hello darlings! Here's the next chapter, and let me tell you, Johanna is the funniest person in the world. In a sick, depressing, twisted sort of way.**

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Chapter 29: I Must Still be Dreaming

Someone is screaming. The sound fills my ears, and I only know that I need to make it stop. The problem is, I can't see anything except Prim, and she's not the one making the noise.

"Peeta!" she calls, standing far away in the mouth of the Cornucopia. She's wearing the dress she wore at her interview, the ocean one. "You did this to me." As I watch, a dark stain spreads out from her heart.

"I'm sorry!" I say. I can't move, as much as I want to. Something holds my feet in place. "I never wanted any of this to happen!"

"It _did_ happen," Prim says, "and you still haven't kept your promise." She sees that I'm confused. "You haven't made it count yet."

"I will!" I tell her. "I promise, I'll do it!" Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder exactly what it is that I'll have to do.

Prim sways with blood loss. "Soon it'll be too late," she says dizzily. "I'm already gone. This is a war, Peeta. Nobody lives to see the end."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, aghast. Prim crumples to the ground.

My feet are finally freed and I dart forward, dropping to my knees by her small figure. _No, no, no…_ This is too much like what happened before; the only thing missing is my knife. Prim's already dead, I can tell, but no cannon sounds. "Prim! Prim, wake up," I moan, holding on to the smoke-thin hope that she's still alive. There hasn't been a cannon blast.

"Please, don't… I… You can't…"

She can't be dead. She can't be dead.

But she is.

"Breadboy. Up and at 'em."

The cutting voice infiltrates my dream, dragging me away from Prim's body and the Cornucopia and the arena, back to the hovercraft. I open my eyes suddenly, jerking awake. The screaming vanishes. Johanna is standing over me, and I'm lying splayed on the floor.

_I was dreaming. It wasn't real._

"Up. We're leaving." Sitting up, I realize that the lights in the hangar are off. And there are other people in the hovercraft now – Haymitch is dropping packs on the floor. Behind him, I can see Katniss watching me. I rub my face to get rid of the sleep and realize that there are tears on my cheeks. Wonderful.

I get to my feet. Plutarch's voice comes from the other room, saying something about being ready to take off. Everyone pops a squat, but I'm too groggy and end up grabbing at the wall as we lift off the ground.

Within seconds we're outside. The Capitol blazes below us, a cluster of lights in yellow, orange, red, green, and blue. I can't see the stars like I would back in District 12; the city is too bright.

Katniss comes up beside me and looks out the window with me. Our flight is smoother now that we're in the air. She watches the ground speed away, the clouds streaming by, lighter purple patches against the night.

"How does it feel to see the sky again?" I ask, my voice cracking a little from the after-affects of my dream.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Katniss says. I'm rewarded by a tiny smile.

"You know, I'm kind of worried about being in District Thirteen, if this happens to you in a month and a half."

"Oh, no. That's the least of your worries." Katniss shakes her head. "You're the face of the rebellion – well, nearly." She doesn't have to tell me who _is_ the face of the rebellion. It's clear from her tone that she means Prim. "You'll be out in the Districts with a camera crew and fancy guns. You might be in Thirteen for a few days at a time, tops."

I open my mouth to ask how she knows this, and she grabs my wrist with an iron grip. "We need to have a talk," she says, and drags me through a door to another room.

We've walked in on something, but I'm not quite sure what. There's a man that I can only describe as beautiful, with bronze hair and green eyes. He doesn't look up when we enter. All of his attention is focused on the lovely young woman by his side who huddles against him, hands clamped over her ears.

Then I remember who these people are. The man is Finnick Odair, a Victor of District 4, which means that the woman must be Annie Cresta, the girl who won two years before he did. With this knowledge comes a kind of horror and guilt, as though I'm spying on something very private, which of course I am. The whole country knows Annie's never been the same since she saw her district partner beheaded. But this frail shape that cringes back against Finnick's arms when the door opens – I wasn't expecting it. She is so lost and irretrievable.

But Finnick is whispering to her, and after a few moments Annie shakily lowers her hands and opens her eyes, which are a strange blue-green color. I remember a few people with eyes like that from my Victory Tour, but I think they were all from District 4.

"I'm sorry, Annie," says Katniss, and there's genuine kindness in her voice. "We didn't know you were in here."

"It's all right," Annie says tremulously. She looks me over once, evaluating. Apparently she's decided I don't pose much of a threat, because she says, "You must be Peeta."

I nod.

Finnick draws Annie closer to him and grins at us. "What did you have in mind to do in here?" He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Katniss gives him a look of greatest disdain. "We were going to have a conversation," she says. "You know, like normal, _civilized_ people."

"Well, don't let us stop you," says Finnick. He coaxes Annie to her feet and leads her to the door, one arm still wrapped protectively around her shoulders. "Enjoy your… conversation." They leave.

I look at Katniss, whom I'm startled to see is trying to hold back laughter. "When did you meet them?" I ask. "I thought you were grounded – literally."

"That doesn't mean other people can't visit," she says. "Finnick's mentoring this year and he never goes anywhere without Annie… He's key in the rebellion; his entire District looks to him for orders right now." She sighs. "Naylor – the male tribute – well, the mayor's family were friends of his. He's not doing so well."

"He seemed fine," I say dubiously, not wanting to think about dead tributes. Fritz, Prim, Rue…

"Can't you see? He's hiding behind his jokes. He's hurt, more than you'd ever realize."

I don't know why Katniss is lecturing me on this. I'm the mentor, not her. You'd think I'd be telling _her_ about losing tributes. But somehow Katniss understands it more than I do. Maybe because I'm such a mess right now, or maybe it's something more.

I sink down into one of the chairs and knead my forehead. "How long will it take to get to the arena?" I ask, very aware of how whiny this sounds and hoping it won't be too long.

"Just two hours," she says. "They've built it closer this year."

"And how many other Victors are on this hovercraft?" I add. I think another surprise like Finnick and Annie would just about be the end for me.

"Besides those two and Johanna… um… I think maybe two more. A guy from District Three and someone from District Five. Oh, and two from District Eleven. I forgot about them." She doesn't sound happy about this last pair. Katniss goes out the door, calling, "You should probably get to know them!"

With a weary groan I get up and follow her. _What I wouldn't give to be five years old…_ Katniss leads me to a very small chamber with four people sitting around a table. She hangs back outside the door, motioning for me to go inside. Feeling way too self-conscious, I walk in.

There's a small man with ashen skin and raven-black hair, his gray eyes peering at me from behind a thick pair of glasses. On his right is a very pale woman with fiery red hair and sharp brown eyes. The other two, a man and a woman, are obviously from District 11, standing out because of their dark skin.

The small man stands up and smiles. He's maybe in his late forties or early fifties. "Hello, Peeta. I'm Beetee." He holds out his hand.

I take it, feeling myself smile back. "District Three, right?"

"Yes. We've been waiting for you."

That's enough to make me annoyed all over again, but I try not to let it show. Back in District 12, I would have done anything for the rebellion. But maybe Katniss is right. Maybe I can't lead. _She'll be so pleased to prove herself right,_ some part of me says. I stand up straighter. I will not back down.

The redheaded woman nods distantly. She's kind of tall but not overbearing, and very slim. "Copernia Tatellum," she introduces herself. I get the feeling that she'd rather be almost anywhere but here, though I don't know why.

"It's nice to meet you," I say uncertainly. She looks vaguely familiar.

"This is Chaff, and this is Seeder," Beetee informs me, gesturing to the remaining two Victors. I move to shake Seeder's hand, but instead I end up trapped in a warm embrace as she hugs me. I'm frozen stiff.

"Thank you so much," she says when she releases me, "for what you did for Rue. You made her very happy."

I open my mouth to say no, that I didn't do anything, but nothing comes out. I'm blown away by both the compliment and the welcome. Nobody's ever acted so, well, _motherly_ towards me before. I choke out a "no problem," and move on.

Shaking Chaff's hand is the best I can do, and I'm incredibly grateful that he doesn't hug me, too. Once a day is enough. I notice that his left arm ends in a stump – yet another reminder of the Games, and how they never really leave you.

"You need new shoes," Chaff tells me, looking at my feet. I remember Johanna's little shoelace noose and hide a shiver.

"I'll get by," I say.

Beetee claps his hands and sits back down, as does Seeder, the only other person to rise in the first place. I sit next to her and she smiles at me. "We were just going over the plan of action for the rescue," she says. "Beetee knows it better than the rest of us."

"It's very simple, really," Beetee protests. "There's nothing to it."

"Excuse us if we're mortal," scoffs Copernia. "Just tell the kid what he has to do."

Beetee gives her a sympathetic look – I get the feeling I'm not understanding something – and turns to me. "Peeta, when we get to the arena, there will be Capitol bombers doing their best to make sure we all die. I'm sure you know this already, so I won't spend too much time on it, but it's imperative that you understand: do not wait for anyone. Collect your assigned tributes, get them to the hovercraft, and keep them there. Don't get sidetracked. Don't try to help anyone else. Just follow the instructions.

"Now, I'll be finding the tributes from Districts One and Two, plus Marlene Orman from Four. How about the rest of you? Tell me who you're bringing back." Beetee looks around at the group.

"I've got Districts Three, Ten, and Six. And then Madge Undersee," Seeder adds, looking at me. "Don't worry. She'll be safe."

I nod, not really sure what to say.

"I have District Eight," Chaff grumbles. "They're going easy on me."

"No, we're not," Copernia tells him. "You're just slacking. I take Eleven and Five."

"That leaves you with District Nine," Beetee tells me, as if I couldn't have figured this out on my own. "Don't forget it," he stresses, fixing me with owlish eyes before leaving rather abruptly. Seeder and Chaff follow him, and I get up to do the same. A hard voice and cold fingers on my arm stop me.

"Mellark." I turn to see Copernia watching me with an impassive expression. "I'd like to have a word."

I sit back down, wondering why. It crosses my mind that I personally killed the female tribute from her district in my Games, and the thought does nothing to ease the tension in the room.

Apparently Copernia's been thinking along the same lines, because she says, "The girl, Vulpe, from District 5 last year. You killed her."

A ten-thousand pound weight drops onto my chest. "Did you, uh, know her?" I ask, hoping desperately that the answer is no.

"Well, yes," says Copernia, as I knew she would. Her voice wavers slightly and her eyes are very bright. "You see, she was my daughter."

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**A/N: Muahahahaha! For all you Foxface lovers out there.**

**2 things to say:**

**1. Please, please, _please_ review!**

**2. Go to the Starvation website (link near the top of my profile) and nominate "My Dreams Smell of Roses" for the Quarter Quell story awards! Free virtual cookies and hot tubs to the first person to do it!**


	30. Chapter 30: Be Strong

**A/N: Oh my Mockingjay, I'm so sorry for the wait. You wouldn't believe how bad my writer's block has been. But I hope this chapter will make up for it! I just want to say that it's finally starting to feel like summer up in this cold, bitter northern state that I call home, and just as it warms up, I come down with this *swears* flu. So everyone, go outside and enjoy that for me. I'm going to fail my Global class because of illnesses.**

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Chapter 30:

I gulp audibly. The first thing that enters my head is, _how did I not know that?_ _How could I not have known she was a Victor's daughter?_ But it's clear, really. Before the Games I didn't care, and afterwards I didn't want to know.

"I'm sorry," I get out, trying to sound sincere, which isn't a problem. I've never been more earnest in my life. "I—I'm _really_ sorry." _Shut up,_ I tell myself. I'm only making things worse.

"I'm sure you are," says Copernia, "but that's not why I want to talk to you." She passes a hand over her eyes, a gesture so weary and familiar that I shudder in remorse. "The rest of them, Seeder particularly, would keep me on board during the rescue if they knew this," she tells me. "I don't care."

I wonder what she's getting at. What more could there be to discuss? She undoubtedly already knows that I'm telling the truth, that I'd almost rather be dead than be a "winner." Every Victor knows this, every Victor feels the same. Except maybe those Careers.

"I won't lie to you. You killed my daughter and I'm not going to pretend that I care for you in any way." Copernia's bleak tone, putting everything on the table, only confirms what I've felt for the past year. "So I think it's best that you understand, I hope you die tonight."

She gets up and leaves, and I try to figure out how I feel about all this. Truthfully, it's just another death threat. Nothing I haven't heard before. But somehow, the fact that it's so out-of-the-blue and unexpected makes it different. Harsher.

Katniss comes in. "How'd it go?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Okay, up until the part where I was pinned for winning the Games."

Katniss nods, seeming unsurprised. "She hates you," she says matter-of-factly.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

Plutarch calls everyone into the cockpit and hands out bulky metal bands for our wrists. He tells us they're for tracking—since each tribute has a tracker injected into their arm, we'll be able to find them. When I look closely at it, I see the little screen and tiny buttons, very nearly flush with the surface of the band, which Plutarch says is called a communicuff.

"Each communicuff is programmed to find only certain tributes. You'll only be tracking the ones you're assigned to. The location of each person is represented by a green circle and yourself by a red circle." I notice that Katniss is looking very put out, sitting by the door with her bow and arrow, but nothing on her wrist. She's clearly unhappy about being left behind. I wonder, if I had a choice, would I stay or go?

I think of Madge, grieving and possibly deaf, and the tributes from District 9, who I'm now responsible for. It's enough to make up my mind beyond refute. I can't just walk away from people who need my help, no matter the personal cost. I've murdered their children. I owe it to them.

After a while, Plutarch alerts everyone to the fact that the force field around the arena has been deactivated by rebels in the Capitol. This is both good and bad, actually. On one hand, we'll have access to the arena. On the other hand, now President Snow knows what we're doing. He knows that we're attempting to rescue the tributes. And what will he do about it? He'll shoot at us. Try to take us out.

He'll do anything to preserve his precious Games.

I can _see_ the arena—the hovercraft is actually skimming the tops of the colossal trees towards the prearranged landing spot—when the first shot hits us. I don't see what it is, but it makes the whole vehicle shake, sending everyone not already seated to the floor.

"It's fine," Plutarch says, but he's gone tense as he grips the controls. Rushing now, he guides the hovercraft to the sort-of clearing. Plutarch punches a button on the dashboard and a blue circle appears on our communicuff screens, representing what's soon to become a safe haven. Because the most dangerous part of the Games is about to begin.

The wall slides open like before, and nobody hesitates to hop out. I hit the ground running and check my communicuff—wonderful. The tributes from District 9—Key and Rachelle Ehmy—are in completely different parts of the arena.

I head towards the closest circle, not knowing who it is. I remember the way Fuze Negolin broke Rachelle's arm during the bloodbath. Only one of the circles was moving, and I doubt it's her. So I abruptly change direction, going for the circle that must be Key. If I can get him to stay in one place, or to come with me, or even to go back to the hovercraft, then my job will be much easier.

It's at this point that I hear the screams. I don't even know who they belong to, or if it's more than one person, only that it sounds exactly like my dream. _Prim._ I wheel around, running at full tilt towards the noise, until I stop dead, thinking of Beetee's instructions.

_Don't get sidetracked. Don't try to help anyone else._

How can I turn away? How can I go back, ignore this? But I have to. I have to.

It takes all of my willpower to force myself around, back towards Key. I run harder and faster than ever before, trying to concentrate on anything but the screams.

A tall, dark form bursts out of the trees, making me yelp and take a swing at it. I'm much too jumpy, but then, anyone would be in this position. The person reaches out and blocks my punch with lightning-fast reflexes. I realize that it's Key.

He visibly relaxes, grinning at me. "Great. You made it." He doesn't seem surprised to find a Victor running through the arena. I belatedly remember that District 9 is one of the Districts in the loop about the rebellion, for which I'm glad. It will certainly make everything simpler.

"Yeah, and listen, we need to move. Rachelle's nowhere near us."

Key takes this in stride and I lead the way through the colossal trees toward Rachelle's circle. It's a bit difficult, keeping track of our position and dodging vegetation at the same time, but somehow I manage it. At one point we glimpse another form through the gloom, too far away to make out who it is.

It's late by the time we find her. At least, I think so. It's hard to tell when it's always so dark already.

She's hunched over, out of sight in the roots of one of the trees, cradling her broken arm to her chest. She looks half-crazed with pain. When she sees Key, she launches to her feet and falls toward him.

He steadies her, and I suck in a breath at the sight of Rachelle's arm—it's hanging at an unnatural angle with the bone poking through the skin. Key's eyes meet mine and I know we're both thinking the same thing: _we need to get her out of here._

It's a long, laborious journey back to the hovercraft. We're nearly there—just about a tenth of a mile left to go—when the first rock explodes, sending shards of stone in every direction. I dive to the ground, pulling the tributes with me.

"They know we're here," I say when the dust has settled somewhat. An obvious statement, really, but one I feel must be spoken aloud. "They won't stop until we're dead," I add for good measure, just so that no one gives up.

Every few steps we all have to flatten ourselves out and wait for the explosions to stop. It's slow going and we're constantly pelted with shrapnel, accumulating dozens of scratches and puncture wounds.

I see it—the hovercraft! It's right there, gleaming silver, its metal surface dented by chunks of rock. I pull Key and Rachelle forward, running to reach safety, like a little kid playing tag… playing tag with lethal weapons. How times have changed.

Just as I step into the craft, a rock explodes, and pain erupts across my back. I fall forward and hands pull me inside, wiry tanned hands with scars. Katniss's hands.

She drags me across the polished floor and for one odd second I feel guilty for smearing it with my blood, which is stupid because most of the other tributes are here, bleeding as well, if not as much as I am.

There's screaming in my ears, coming from outside. The adrenaline in my veins helps me to rise, ignoring the pain. It's nearly beyond me, but I force myself towards the noise despite the orders to come back, _now_.

It's Copernia, with her tributes from Eleven and Five—wait, no. She only has three others. Bridger stumbles through the trees as she waits for him, the arrows still sticking out of his body like a human pincushion. Both of them have frantic expressions that I have a bad feeling are completely unconnected from the exploding rocks.

I'm right. That infernal bear, the one that Bridger managed to fend off earlier, is lumbering towards us all. I can only stare as it swings a hooked paw at Bridger and picks up a shrieking figure, a figure with red hair. Copernia has pushed her ward out of danger, risking her life for him. I shouldn't be surprised since this is essentially what we've all come to do tonight, but I'm still rendered motionless.

A person comes streaking around and firing arrows at the bear. Katniss, of course. With a new target, Copernia is dropped, forgotten, only a few feet away from me. This frees my feet and I stumble towards her, calling her name.

She lifts her head, brown eyes peering out of her bloody face. "Go on," she rasps, spitting the words at me. "Don't bother."

I'm torn. My back is literally killing me; I can feel my life draining away with every second. Even now I sway dizzily from blood loss. But this woman is dying too. I can't just leave her, however much I'd benefit from the act.

So I stretch out my hand, willing her to take it before I fall over. She still hesitates, and I suddenly understand why. In the panic of the last hour I've forgotten her grudge, how I killed her daughter. And it's obvious now that she'd rather die than accept my help. But I won't back down.

"Vulpe was strong," I shout among the explosions and roars. I dimly notice that the hovercraft is about to take off. "She was strong, and you need to be strong, too!"

I don't know how I've managed to convince her, but she grasps my hand and I let out a yell of pain at the effort it takes to pull her up. Once we're going, though, it's impossible to stop. We're in the hovercraft, lying on the floor gasping for air. Then, all at once, I remember.

"What about Katniss?" I demand, another surge of strength giving me the power to sit halfway upright. Something hits the hovercraft and the entire thing shudders massively.

"No time!" says Plutarch tersely, maneuvering the craft around debris. No, not debris, missiles. Missiles trained on us. We're being shot at.

As soon as I realize this, a tracking bomb shoots out of the clouds and skids off the side of the machine. It doesn't go off, but Plutarch is knocked against the wall and slumps over, unconscious.

I shove him out of his seat and take his place, my brain fuzzy from pain and exhaustion. A certain amount of Katniss's training kicks in and my hands find the right levers and buttons. For about thirty seconds I'm able to dodge the bombs, until something huge collides with the side of the craft and I'm thrown across the room.

It's all too much: the pain in my back and now in both of my legs as well, pinned down by something heavy. I can't find the energy to move or even think about anything but how this is it, this is the end.

In a burst of crystal-clear senses, I see a blond figure running towards me. Blonde with blue eyes.

_Prim_, I think distantly.

All I feel is happiness now, because if she's here, then it must be nearly over. I shut my eyes, aware that I'm dying. And then I give into the blackness, once and for all.

**A/N: And _that_ is exactly how sadistic I can get. Review, review, review!**


	31. Chapter 31: Options

**A/N: It's okay, he's not dead...yet...**

**This chapter is pretty short, the smallest I've written in a while. My school gets out on Thursday (wooh! no more middle school for me! Ich bin ein Freshman...auf deutsche... whatever) so I'm a little swamped with studying for finals and packing, because on Saturday I'm going to Washington DC for 2 weeks. However, the place at which we're staying _does_ have Internet, so I might be able to squeeze in an update while I'm there.**

**Anyways, here's the chapter. I hope you enjoy it (though it's a bit of a downer).**

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Chapter 31: Options

_You_

Me…

Who am I? _What_ am I? At the moment, all I can come up with is "a whole lot of pain." Every part of me screams in agony as if I'm being stabbed with knives, everywhere, over and over again. But I know that I'm more—a boy, a baker, a painter.

_Deserve_

I have a nagging feeling that whatever I deserve, it's bad. Of course, it could be an award or a new set of paints, or for all of this to have been only a horrible dream. Even if that last one is it, though, I just deserve it. And everyone knows that the most deserving people in history rarely get what's due to them.

_To die._

Oh. I remember now.

* * *

When I'm mostly alive—though asleep—there's a voice talking to me.

"Peeta, can you hear me?"

"Whossat?" I mumble, groggy from whatever drugs are pumping through me.

"Try to open your eyes."

It doesn't _sound_ like a bad suggestion, and I don't see how it could harm me, so I try. It's very difficult, as though my eyelids have been stitched shut. After a few moments, I can squint.

"That's very good," the voice says. I decide that it's female and probably fairly young, though older than Ka—me. Older than me. "Now, watch this light."

I obediently keep my gaze fixed on a little mini flashlight that's bright enough to make my head hurt. Well, more than it already does.

"Raise your right hand," the voice instructs. I do. "Now your left." I try, but nothing…and then it hits me.

I can't feel my left arm. At all.

"All right, what's going on?" I demand, too worried to say anything else. Now that panic's clearing my head, I find that I'm in a square, white-walled room with bright fluorescent lights. There's a door in one wall and a tray full of sterile-looking medical equipment in the corner.

"Wait a moment, please," the voice says.

As I sit tight—too tight with all the tension—other things become clear. I'm in a hospital, since no other place can induce this much stress. I'm still alive for some reason, which is just plain annoying, since the feeling of death was so peaceful. And I can't feel my legs, either. All of this probably has something to do with being knocked around in a damaged hovercraft.

The door opens and a woman comes in, maybe in her late twenties. She wears a surgeon's scrubs and a concerned expression.

"I'm Delphi," she tells me. It was her voice I heard. "I'd like you to try raising your left arm again."

I oblige—that is, I do _try_, but my arm remains immobile. "I can't," I say.

"Well, Peeta," she says cautiously, "I'll be back later. There's something I need to do." She turns to go.

"How about you tell me what's wrong with my arm?" I ask. Delphi hesitates and the way she stands is reminiscent of a little kid caught misbehaving.

She lets all her breath out in a huff, as if she's giving up. "I'll be right back," she says, and exits before I can say anything. To her credit, though, she returns in less than a minute with a chair and a thin stack of papers. Sitting next to my bed, she speaks, avoiding my eyes.

"In your rescue of the tributes, you were badly wounded in your back and legs. A large, spiked fragment of rock embedded itself in your rhomboids and trapezius. These muscles were severely damaged and while my team and I were able to repair most of the tissue, some areas were too torn to fix."

"I don't understand." My voice has a mechanic sound to it.

Delphi purses her lips in an upset way and clenches her hands together. "You may not be able to use your arm again," she says in a rush. In a calmer, steadier tone, she continues. "We couldn't be sure about the extent of the paralysis until you woke up. I'm sorry."

I can't really comprehend what she's saying. The main thought running through my head is, _I guess that's it for baking_. It's all I can do to tear my eyes away from my forever-limp arm. "What about my legs?"

Delphi shakes her head. "They were crushed by one of the hovercraft walls… We had to amputate."

_Wait, what?_

"So, I've got, what, _one_ working limb now, is that it?"

"I'm so sorry."

"Right." I'm starting to feel dizzy with shock. Until now, I'd never realized just how much I took for granted: the ability to walk and move around, to do things for myself. But some sort of survival mechanism kicks in, and I feel kind of removed from the confusion. My voice is strangely calm as I ask, "What now?"

Delphi's face brightens infinitesimally. "Well," she begins, riffling through her papers, "some of the scientists here have been—"

"Hang on a second," I interrupt. "Where _is_ here, anyway?"

"District 13," she says. "And our scientists have been designing prosthetics. At the moment there aren't many amputees, so the number of tests is quite small. However, if you wish, you could be fitted with artificial limbs to replace what you've lost."

I think I might actually faint, however embarrassing that would be. All of this new and devastating information, combined with the drugs left over from surgery and who knows what else, have a nauseating effect on my system. "Um… I have to decide now?"

"Of course not. I'm just letting you know. Why don't you relax for a bit and think about it? I'll check on you later."

"Okay." This is obviously not a suggestion. My eyelids begin to droop and I fall asleep before Delphi has even left the room.

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**A/N: Also, I forgot to say this-check out my SYOT called "If I Die Before I Wake." Submissions are (sadly) closed, but you might enjoy it anyways.**

**Until next time,**

**~Ripred**


	32. Chapter 32: Family

Chapter 32: Family

When I resurface, I have to wait a minute before the jumble of confusion in my head is able to sort itself out. I remember the escape from the arena, leaving Katniss behind, and what my current condition is.

How utterly useless I've become.

I open my eyes to the immaculate white ceiling of District 13's hospital. The blankets are pulled halfway up my chest, and I notice right away that I am officially a cripple now. The only appendage I've retained is my right arm. They must have amputated while I was unconscious.

There's an IV dripping into my one remaining limb, with some clear fluid sloshing through a tube. Aside from that, there's a whole host of beeping machines monitoring my heartbeat and breathing and who knows what.

No sooner have I sighed in recognition—this is just like what happened to me after the Games—than the door opens and Delphi enters. Apparently, they're monitoring me more carefully than I thought if they already know I'm awake.

"Hello, Peeta," she says cordially, eyes sympathetic. "How are you feeling?"

"Rotten," I tell her truthfully, "but I think it's the anesthetics or whatever."

"That's perfectly normal," she assures me. "Now, let's make sure your arm's okay." She motions for me to stretch it out in front of me. I do, albeit a little stiffly. "Good, good…" Delphi scribbles a note on her clipboard. "Touch each of your fingers to your thumb, please?"

This test goes on for at least five minutes, until she seems satisfied. She stands to leave, giving me a sad look. "In case you decide about the prosthetics, just remember that I'll be checking in on you regularly."

I don't know whether to be annoyed or glad.

The day passes without anything noteworthy happening. I discover that I'm not a starfish, meaning that I will not grow new limbs. To stop from dwelling on thoughts of the future, I look to the past. It's true that my mother wasn't the most ideal caretaker, but I _did_ have a somewhat privileged life compared to the rest of Twelve, at least until the Games stole that away from me. I immerse myself in daydreams of squirrel stew and the sweetshop. It's comforting and I wish more than anything that it was real.

The next morning, I get a visitor.

His face is older than I remember it, his eyes more world-weary than they've ever been before. But in them, I see the same kindness and affection that I grew up with.

My father.

He doesn't come in right away, peeking around the door just as he did when I was younger, to check if I was asleep yet. When he sees I'm awake and sitting up, he enters fully and sits in the chair that Delphi always leaves by my bed.

"Dad," I say, uncertain as to why he's here. I thought I'd left him and the rest of my family back in District 12. Then I experience a disconcerting flash of intuition. I can't get the words out fast enough. "Larson? Travis? Mom?"

The answer is plain in his eyes, and my breathing turns shallow. The machines register this with an increasingly frantic tempo of beeps. _They're gone._ I can't say we were a happy family but _they're gone, they're dead_. "How?" I choke out.

"The night you stopped the Quell," he says, "they sent in hovercrafts. Bombed the District to bits." His voice sounds dead, unfamiliar.

_This is all my fault._ If I had just died long ago, in the seventy-fourth Games, none of this would ever have happened. Prim would have gone home alive. My home would still be standing. And the Capitol would still have absolute control…

So maybe I've begun to change that. But how? By starting a war? This was never what I wanted. Most of my family is dead because I tried to fix things. Instead, I have only made everything worse.

"Don't blame yourself, son," my father says gently. "There wasn't much you could do. At least we have each other." He puts his hand on my shoulder, making me feel five years old again.

I nod. It's really all I'm able to do.

We must sit together for an hour and a half, at the same time separated and connected by our grief. All I can think is how much everything's changed. Yet there is still something familiar: the love in my father's eyes. He is still family. We have each other. If we have nothing else, at least there is that.

"This is the amputee ward," says my father eventually. He is staring, brow furrowed, at my missing arm. "How'd that happen?" His voice is rough and I think he's trying hard to hide his feelings, which is stupid, because I've been way more emotional than he ever could be.

"A hunk of rock tore my back muscles," I say, "which are somehow connected to my arm. So it was paralyzed. Really no point in keeping it just hanging there," I add, because it's true.

"Is…" my father begins, and then clears his throat. "Is that it? Nobody told me what happened in the arena, and they blacked out the television screens as soon as the rescue started."

"Um." I don't know how to phrase this, and my brain seems to be working more slowly than usual. "If I told you I couldn't walk anymore… what would you say?"

"You can't _walk?_" His alarmed gaze flickers to where my feet used to be and then back to my face. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, getting himself under control. I watch carefully.

"It's not that bad," I venture timidly. "Really, it isn't. Just a, uh, an accident?"

"_Let me see your legs,_" he demands in a terrifying voice that I have never heard before.

It's difficult with only one hand, but I manage to move the sheets enough to reveal the depressingly short stumps that were once working limbs.

There are tears in my father's eyes. I have never, ever seen him cry. Not when his mother died—she was one of the oldest people in District 12, nearly seventy-seven. Not during mining accidents, when his kindness was the most apparent. And certainly not due to a personal injury, though he's been burned plenty of times from hot trays and oven fires. But here, when it is my body hurt beyond repair, my freedom that has been taken away and my mind that has been damaged—when I watch tears run down my father's face and he doesn't wipe them away, this is when I understand the full extent of just how much my world, and my life, has changed.

I feel, more than ever, afraid.

"How?" my father asks, just as I did earlier. He sounds afraid, devastated, and completely lost.

"Crushed by a hovercraft," I say in a small voice. "No way to fix them."

My father puts his head in his hands, seeming overwhelmed. He has had to face his entire family's death, save mine. And just when he thinks that this will all work out, he learns of my… deformity. My father cries for me. And then he leaves, unable to stand it.

How did he bear it back home, when my mother beat her children raw and made us scream? How did he stay strong through that? Of course I know the answer. He at least knew that we were all together and that, deep inside, we were family. Now that is gone. His strength has gone with it.

Delphi returns that afternoon and we both pretend that my eyes are not red and puffy from too much information. We go through the routine exercises for my arm and then she asks me the question that I am dreading.

"So, Peeta, have you thought any more about getting surgery for prosthetics?"

I don't think I'm ready to answer. This will change my life, will mean learning how to walk again. It would be so much easier to give up and just sit here in bed, slowly becoming a vegetable. Fewer chances to kill innocent people. Less pain.

But also less gain.

From what Katniss told me beneath the Sponsor Center days ago—it seems like years, centuries—, the people of Panem recognize me as their leader in this rebellion. Who am I to let them down? And how can I let _Katniss_ down, when I've left her to the twisted minds in the Capitol, when I'm responsible for whatever they are doing to her? I owe it to her to at least try to recover from this. And then there's my father. The loss of my legs has hurt him even more than it has me. If I am remembered for anything besides murder, I want it to be that I made my father happy again. I know there's really only one way to go about doing that.

"Yeah, I have," I reply in response to Delphi's question. "I think I'll go for it."

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**A/N: I'm in Washington DC! So excited, tomorrow we're going to the Smithsonian. I have been in the car for three full days, people! And if I don't get a review, I will be royally PO'ed. No offense.**

**Seriously, though. If nobody reviews, I assume nobody's reading.**

_**Please**_** review?**

**Oh, yeah. If anyone reading this uses prosthetics, be a dear and PM me with some information if that's okay? I have no clue where to start when learning about amputees and the like.**


	33. Chapter 33: How to be Strong

**A/N: Oh, wow. It's been more than a _month_ since this was updated... gosh, guys, I'm sorry. Here is why:**

**1. Exchange student from Belarus**

**2. Class on how to get published (I've now submitted a manuscript to 6 publishing houses). One of my classmates is/was BlackPunkPrincess on this site, go check her out :)**

**3. D.C. Trip, as I've mentioned before. _Horrible_ internet.**

**4. And, yes, writer's block. At the end. It took me about 2 weeks of distancing myself from the story to relax enough; I was that fed up with this chapter.**

**I really am sorry. However, the chapter's here now!**

**This is in Katniss's POV, and thank you to "I'mWithTheMockingjay" for cluing me in.**

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Chapter 33: How to be Strong

**KATNISS'S POV!**

When I wake, I'm stiff, as though I haven't moved for hours. There's no confusion as to remembering what happened: I can recall perfectly how I shot at the gargantuan bear to give the others time to escape. And how the hovercraft sped away, leaving me stranded.

Clearly, I'm not in the arena anymore. The first thing I realize is that I'm naked. I can feel cold metal underneath my body as I lie on my back. This alone answers the question of where I've ended up: the Capitol again. Only this time, they know I'm here.

I quietly take stock of my injuries. Without opening my eyes—no doubt I'm under surveillance—I know that I have shallow cuts lacing up both arms and several puncture marks on the bottoms of my bare feet. I wouldn't be surprised if I've broken a finger or two. But most troubling, I can feel a large wound on my right shoulder. It stings.

There's one thing I have no idea about: a net of tickling _somethings_ that crisscross over my entire body. At my elbows, waist, and knees, the net is strapped down with some sort of rubber band, so that I can't get out from under it. I chance a peek through my eyelashes to see what it is.

A mesh of thin wires, trapping me on a hard, polished metal table in a white room with dashboards of buttons and dials lining the walls.

This is where they are going to torture me.

My heart begins to pound in fear, which is registered on an invisible machine, filling the air with a beeping alarm. "She's awake!" says a voice outside the door, and three men burst in. Two of them wear sanitary masks and crisp white uniforms. The other wears a suit and tie, his white hair neatly combed back from a face that I have seen all my life. President Snow.

The masked men take up positions at the machinery. The President comes to stand beside my table, gazing down at me with an unreadable expression.

"Miss Everdeen," he says, "it seems your race is run. And it seems that your _luck_ has run _out_."

I watch him carefully, vowing to stay silent through whatever they do to me. I will not give anyone the satisfaction of hearing my pain.

"Now, I'll tell you that there is no need for these men"—he gestures to the white-masked figures—"to hurt you, but they will if it's necessary. Therefore, I'll ask you first. I'd prefer to do this quickly and quietly." He pauses. "Tell me: where is the entrance to the rebel base in this city?"

I don't answer.

"That's impolite," he says when it's apparent that I'm not going to be compliant, "and unfortunate. Very well. You've brought this upon yourself." He nods at the other men.

A button is pressed, a dial is twisted, and an electric shock jolts through my body. I automatically tense into a rigid position that only adds to the sensation. The pain is intense, but I have a feeling that this is the "low" setting. It ends after about thirty seconds.

President Snow is still standing over me, snake eyes narrowed into slits. "Believe me, it can get much worse than that. You have another chance to answer."

I glare at him, pressing my lips together until it hurts.

"I don't want to do this," he tells me, the malice in his eyes giving away the lie. "You leave me no choice."

This time the shock is more profound and lasts longer. I can barely keep from crying out, but the thought of Prim is enough that I'm able to stay silent.

The torture continues for hours, growing worse and worse until I eventually black out.

The blissful release of unconsciousness doesn't last long. I'm given a rude awakening by another masked figure. No sooner have my eyes opened than there is an excruciating pain in my ankle, slowly traveling the circumference until it feels as though I have a burning band of metal encircling my lower calf.

I lift my pounding head just a little, trying to see what he's doing to me. I glimpse the knife just as someone else roughly pushes me back down.

Both of my legs are soon etched with a pattern of gashes. I feel the blood leaving my body and creating a hot puddle around me. I have somehow managed not to speak.

"Miss Everdeen, this will continue until you comply with my wishes," says Snow when he comes in to watch the progress that is being made. And then he leaves.

There are ten-minute reprieves between each ravaging. By the time the man finishes with my left arm and proceeds to my right, there are silent tears streaming down my face. I cannot imagine anything worse than this. And yet there are many reasons not to give in, reasons to stay strong.

There is the way the Capitol terrorizes my District, and the other eleven. There is the uncertain new connection that Gale and I share, a recent development that leaves me wondering. There is the way that Peeta can be infuriating, kind, horrible, and good, all at the same time. There is the way the Capitol punishes us all for the crimes of our grandparents, something we never participated in.

There is Prim.

This decides things for me. I will not speak the secrets entrusted to me, because my sister died for them. She died for all of us, and I will never let that go to waste, never let it be forgotten.

As the masked man begins to carve designs on my lips, my cheeks, my forehead, I know that I have the strength to do this. But it's difficult. Agonizing, even. I jolt back and forth between unconsciousness and lucidity. The former is a profound emptiness that seems to fill me up, but whenever I relax enough to appreciate it, the burning pain is back with a vengeance, slowly stripping away my resolve.

During one of the brief bouts of unconsciousness, I find myself in the woods in District Twelve. And standing nearby, looking as alive as he was when I last saw him, is my father.

I want to run to him, but I can't. My feet won't move. I dimly recognize that I can still feel the Capitol man's knife cutting my body, though there are no wounds. This must be a dream.

"Father!" I call. "Talk to me." There is some part of me that can't help but cry out. I don't care if this is all in my head.

"Katniss," my father says. "You're all grown up." He seems to really see me, really focus. "You've been so strong."

"I don't know how long I can stay like this," I say. The full weight of my despair comes crashing down. "I don't know if I can keep quiet."

He doesn't speak, almost as though he is waiting for me to say something more.

"Help me," I plead.

"Remember the katniss tubers?" he asks. I nod. "You have to find yourself. You have to be your own strength."

Then the pain is back, but a melody echoes in my mind:

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow,_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow,_

_Lay down your head and close your sleepy eyes,_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise._

I know that I will probably die here, that this is most likely the end, but my father's voice gives me the courage to hang on for a little longer. As the song continues, I feel more peaceful than ever before.

_Here it's safe, here it's warm,_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm,_

_Here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true,_

_Here is the place where I love you…_

ANOTHER MAN'S WOMAN

MAN ON THE MOON by R.E.M.

And even Jordan River has bodies floating, but you tell me over and over and over again my friend how you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.


	34. Chapter34:Nobody Said the Truth was Nice

Chapter 34: Nobody Said the Truth was Nice

After the surgery, when I wake up in my hospital bed, my father is sitting next to me. His face is rough with worry and his eyes on my face are intent enough to burn holes in my skin. When he sees I'm conscious, he sighs in relief.

"How do you feel?"

I take a moment to think about the answer to that question. "Numb," I say at last. It's true. Groggy and a little disoriented.

"Is that normal?" he asks somebody else. I look around and see a middle-aged woman on the other side of my bed.

"Anesthetics," she explains with a nod. "It's fine. Hello, Peeta. I'm Doctor Reeves, your prosthetist."

"Hi." I don't want to spend time on cordialities. "Did it—did the surgery, um, work?" _Am I permanently useless?_

Dr. Reeves smiles. "You're officially our biggest success," she says, as though I'm a product instead of a person. "Everything went according to plan."

I use my good arm, my right arm, to raise myself into a sitting position and take a look at the left side of my body.

A smooth, white metal appendage is connected to my shoulder. It's very thin, and looks nearly too slender to be functional, but I know that can't be true. At the end, there's an immaculate hand.

With a burst of excitement, I try to lift my arm.

_It works!_

I discover that I can wiggle my fingers, too, which have robotic joints in lieu of knuckles. Every movement is accompanied by a slight _whir_, which Dr. Reeves assures me will go away in time.

I feel a smile stretching across my face, growing ridiculously huge. My father's face mirrors my own. I have an arm again; I'm _not_ useless—not totally useless, at least.

"What about my legs?" I ask.

"See for yourself." Dr. Reeves gestures for me to move the sheets.

I do so, feeling a little thrill at using my left arm to help. There, attached about seven inches above where my knees would normally be, are two metal structures. Unlike my arm, they're black with gray sections. The thigh area resembles very closely the body part it's replacing, shape-wise at least, but the lower leg is basically a post. There's a very foot-like foot at the bottom.

"Are you ready to try them out?" Dr. Reeves asks.

I nod, suddenly anxious as well as enthusiastic.

Both adults scoot their chairs away from my bed, and Dr. Reeves hands me something that looks depressingly like a cane. Taking it uncertainly, I swing my new legs out over empty space and sit on the edge of the thin mattress.

"Okay," I mutter, concentrating. In one fluid movement I push myself away from the bed and find myself, though leaning heavily on the walking stick, standing on my two feet once again. Encouraged, I take one step, and then another.

I look up to see my father smiling so hard that I think his face may split in two. I totter over to him and give him a one-armed hug, which he returns.

Finally, I think things may work out.

Later, as I practice walking with the cane around and around my little hospital room—my father has gone off to lunch and Dr. Reeves left as soon as it was clear I could manage—there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," I call, expecting a nurse or some other hospital worker. Except it's nobody native to Thirteen.

Gale Hawthorne is standing in my doorway.

I stare at him for a second, wondering what on earth he's doing here. Squint in confusion.

"Um," I say uncertainly. I cough and start again. "Is there something you want to say?" I've got a feeling there is, and that it's not anything nice. But I'll be polite… maybe.

"Yes," he says after a short pause. In his gray soldier's uniform he looks as angry as though he's about ready to punch my nose in, which is probably the case.

He doesn't say anything else, and I stand awkwardly, waiting and wishing I were in anything but the hospital gown that shows my behind to everyone I walk past. Eventually I just tell him, "Well, spit it out." After a second I add, "I don't have all day." It's such a transparent comment that I'm sure he ignores it. I don't blame him.

He examines me as though hunting for a visual clue of… something. I don't know what. He clenches his jaw; the muscle there ripples ominously. "How could you do it?" he asks finally in a voice so quiet it's deadly. "How could you leave her there?" I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he doesn't let me speak. "You killed Prim, you as good as killed Katniss—she's probably dead by now, anyways—"

"Wait," I interrupt. He blinks, looking affronted, and pauses for a moment. I take my chance. "You're right about one thing," I acknowledge. "I _did_ kill Prim." The truth makes me want to vomit. I've never hated myself this much. "I didn't want to, I didn't mean to, and I wish more than anything I could change it. But I didn't leave Katniss in the arena!"

"We've got the tapes," Gale says as though this solves everything. "She _saved your life_, traitor! She went through hell because of you and what did you do? You let her jump right into the lion's jaws!" He's nearly shouting now.

I shake my head, denying both his words and my own guilt, because a part of me knows it's true. "You don't think I would have stopped her if I could?" I demand. "You don't think I'd give anything to have her safe right now?"

"All I know is that you're the Capitol's newest toy. You're one of them."

I actually have to laugh at this. "That's what you think, huh?" I smile bitterly. "Take a look at me. The Capitol's killed most of my family and taken away seventy-five percent of my limbs, and you say I'm _one of them_?"

"Everyone knows you are. But you sit here and don't do anything except get more people killed, misguided people who think you're their hero." He interprets my expression correctly. "Your nickname is famous even in the Capitol, _Mockingjay_."

"I never asked to be called that!" I inform him, almost yelling. "I wish none of this had ever happened!"

Gale is still fuming. "It did happen, Mellark. Because of you." He takes three long strides across the hospital room until he's right in my face, rage etched into the lines of his own. "It's your fault." Abruptly, he wheels around and leaves.

For the next few days as I recover from surgery and practice walking around, I'm driven by something other than a need to rebel. Gale's words have damaged my pride badly. I _am_ just a crippled teenager, yet people think I'm some sort of poster boy. They're out there fighting for me.

They're dying for me.

I need to make it up to them. How, though? How can I be worthy of what they're doing and what they think I am? It's a question that gnaws on me for days until I finally decide what I've known all along.

I'm going to fight. It'll be difficult with fake limbs. Maybe—probably—even impossible. But I'll try. I'm not going to give up until it's clear I've done all I can.

I will be the Mockingjay.

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**A/N: Sorry for the dramatic ending :) Also, before anyone calls me out on it, I'm sure there are a lot of things that are not therapeutically possible happening in this chapter, such as, it's most likely more difficult to walk at first. I understand that... so the next few chapters will be more of a, shall we say, struggle. Just putting that out there.**

**In other words: I honestly don't know the first thing about prosthetics. Sorry for any mistakes! :D**

**Also, links to images of Peeta's arm & leg can be found on my profile, with the other links. You could check out the new banner(s) I made while you're at it, maybe.**

**Of course, this wouldn't be an AN without this: please review! Maybe we can get to 100 reviews... here, tell you what: if we get to 100 on this chapter or the next, I will take 5 requests for one-shots. So. Review!**


	35. Chapter 35: Good Mourning

**A/N: Man, school starts exactly a week from today. I'm both excited and disappointed. However, I'll be taking German, FINALLY, so that's something.**

**Please enjoy the chapter!**

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Chapter 35: Good Mourning

Dr. Reeves tells me that I'm lucky. He says that before the Dark Days, before Panem, in fact—back when this place was still called North America—the average amputee would only have a fifty-fifty chance of a successful experience with prosthetics. And then, he says, even if surgery worked, it would take months of therapy to function normally.

I'm told that these days, prosthetic technology has heightened unimaginably. Surgery rarely fails and it only takes a week or two to resume natural mobility.

He says this in a very excited tone, and it's true, I'm grateful for it, but I'm hoping I'll be able to work more quickly than the average amputee. I don't _have_ two weeks. The rebellion, or the Mockingjay Movement, as people are calling it—to my great embarrassment—has escalated as dramatically as prosthetic technology, except even more rapidly.

District Eleven has overcome all odds and defeated their Peacekeepers. And since Districts Three, Four, and Eight are in full-scale rebellion, the Capitol needs all the hovercrafts elsewhere. The others, excepting Two and Ten, are whispering amongst themselves, so to speak. It looks like either District One or District Five will be the next to speak out.

Hundreds have died already. Thousands more will die before this is over.

I funnel my emotions into the drills I do every day. Walking up and down stairs, jogging back and forth along my hospital corridor. Assembling a gun over and over, at least twenty times a day. A series of stretches and twists for flexibility. Slowly but surely, I begin to improve.

Plutarch says he wants to film something he calls a propo—a propaganda promotion. "To show the people that you're all right," he says. I think of this with a capitol 'P', in that the citizens are the People. A generality. "If they see you alive and mobile, it will help with all our efforts."

I nod. "Where exactly would this be filmed?" I ask. "Here in Thirteen?"

"Nope," he says, shaking his head. "You're going home."

The hovercraft ride to District Twelve is shorter by far than the one to the arena from the Capitol. After all, we are—were, I correct myself mentally—we _were_ neighboring Districts. I spend the ten minutes fidgeting anxiously in my seat, fighting with myself.

Truth is, I'm terrified of what I'll find. Images flood my mind. The bakery, the cakes in the window. The ovens. The sweetshop with discs of candy, blue, yellow, and green. Everything is precious suddenly, and I want to go back in time to when I knew what the next day might hold.

I'm not alone in the craft. Delly Cartwright, another girl from Twelve, is here with me. We were friends in primary school. For years we've only ever nodded at each other as we passed, but now, in the wake of all this destruction, we talk about home.

_Home_. I can see it now, out the window of the hovercraft. And it is horribly unfamiliar.

The crumpled skeletons of buildings, with sagging roofs and supports jutting out like broken bones, are now the second-tallest things in the district. The Justice Building, which was once enormous, is reduced to little more than a pile of rubble. Even from this distance, I can see that the only things still standing are the things that belong to the Capitol: the immaculate houses of the Victor's Village.

_Home._ It's gone now, once and for all. And I feel like I'm drowning.

A quiet, muffled sob from Delly reaches my ears, but it barely registers. Even when we jolt onto the green near the perfect Village, I move in a wooden, automatic state to leave the craft.

The first thing that hits me is the scent, like a solid wall of reeking bodies. It makes me dimly wish I'd followed Plutarch's suggestion to bring a mask, as Delly has. With no barrier between my nose and the contaminated air, I nearly vomit. But I make my lurching, unsteady way towards the merchants' streets without being sick.

The streets are lined with decaying forms, blanketed in droning flies, the sound of which nearly drowns out the mantra in my head: _everyone, everyone, everyone, everyone, everyone…_

"Peeta," a voice begins. It's Cressida, one of the Capitolites in charge of my propo, but unlike Plutarch, she isn't so controlling. Even now, it's hard to believe she's deliberately interrupting my grief. "Is there anything you'd like to tell the Districts?" Another good thing about Cressida is that she doesn't try to force me to talk—because my mouth is glued shut for fear of the sobs that might come out.

I've reached my street. I don't recognize the shops, with their windows shattered if they're not flattened. The bakery hasn't been spared in the least.

_Everyone_…

I'm now almost grateful for the dusting of ash over every surface. It makes it difficult to spot bodies in the wreckage of what used to be my home. But there—

The ash carpet is thinner over the bodies because of the flies. A corpse lies on the place where the front step of the bakery once was. I can no longer make out the finer details, but it is—_was_—plainly a child. Among the putrid, rotting flesh are long, gentle waves of the golden hair that so many of the merchants' children, myself included, possessed.

_Everyone, everyone…_

I'm suddenly aware of a burning thing inside me, deep in my core, where this little girl joins the others who've died at the Capitol's hands. The burning is fury, rage at this—this _wrongness_. The injustice that no one, _NO ONE,_ has been spared.

_Everyone._

I take a moment to arrange the words in my head, where it seems they've been all along. I turn to the cameras, where Cressida and her group are watching me. Waiting for me to speak. I'd hate to disappoint them.

I am careful to look straight into the lens. "Do you see this?" I ask, a slight tremor in my voice. "This is what the Capitol will do to all of us. They'll burn us all out if we let them."

I swallow, beating back the bile that rises at the horror. "We won't give them that chance."

"This place, District Twelve, has been literally wiped off the map. Don't let that happen in the other Districts. If you're going to give up, then think first, why? Because someone you love has died in this war? I guarantee you, we'll _all_ die if we give up, and their sacrifice will have been worthless."

My voice is strong now, full of the conviction that I've mustered. "You've been fighting your whole lives, just by living, by staying alive. I'm asking you to keep fighting, to _win,_ because if you don't, nothing will change. The Capitol will never give us our freedom—we have to take it!"

Suddenly tired, I knead my forehead, breathing hard from the energy of what I utter. Cressida gives me a half-smile and tells me I can go. As quickly as I'm able, I hobble away and towards the hovercraft where it sits in the Victor's Village. Halfway there, I end up vomiting my breakfast onto someone's bones.

My revulsion at my surroundings carries me into my second home, at the Village. Everything is abruptly commonplace, as pristine as the last time I saw it. I barely have time to register this before something muddy-orange and tiny streaks out of the kitchen, hissing loudly.

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**A/N: Ooooh, CLIFFHANGER!**

**I would have made this longer, but my mom's shoving me off the computer so I can go read the ENORMOUS book we're assigned for Gov this year.**

**Review, review, review!**


	36. Chapter 36: Paranoia

Chapter 36: Paranoia

When my heart restarts and the sound of my oath has faded from the air, I realize that the thing is a cat. Well, really, it's more like the _skeleton_ of a cat. Its fur is lank and dirty, and I can plainly see each one of its ribs. Hostile eyes glare at me from deep pits in its face, an ugly yellow color like rotting squash.

I wonder if I can skirt around it. There are things I want to take, remembrances of my family. I'm fairly sure I'll end up at least getting clawed, if not mauled. But when I take a step to the right, the cat hisses once more before fleeing the room. I hear its claws clacking on the kitchen tiles.

I know that there is no one else in this house. The District 13 soldiers did a thorough check before they gave the hovercrafts permission to land. Still, my spine tingles as I ascend the stairs, as though the dead people who lay outside are watching me. Several times, I peek behind me, afraid to see someone there.

My nerves are so frayed that I almost run down the hall to my old room. That is, I _would_ run, if I were able. With metal to replace my flesh, the best I can do is a lurching hobble. I'm not yet up to par with everything the world has done to my body.

I shut the door tightly behind me, leaning against it and breathing hard. It was a mistake to come here, I think. There's too much pain. I am the Mockingjay, but I can't handle this.

Driven by the small part of my mind that remembers my purpose, I go to the closet. In the back, behind the clothes that are now dusty, sits a small box. I have kept it here. I remove the lid with apprehension. The small photos of my brothers, Larson and Travis, bring a lump to my throat. Dead. Gone. I can't pretend that we were close, but—

I slam the lid back onto the box.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I whip my head around so quickly that I crick my neck. As I get up, rubbing the sore spot and clutching the box, I don't know why I'm so nervous. I know that there's nothing to be afraid of here. But some unknown, burning suspicion makes me hurry over to the window and run my hands over the frame. When it yields nothing, I search the folds of the curtains.

I look around the room, inside an old vase and beneath the bed, into the cobwebby space between my desk and the wall. Finally, I sit at the desk chair, defeated and unable to tell myself why. I am looking for something, but I do not know what. I scrape my thumbnail along the underside of the desk while I try not to think.

And then I am jolted out of my reverie as something is dislodged from beneath my fingertips and falls to the floor. It makes no sound as it lands on the thick carpet. I reach for the small, black figure and the spoke that extends from it, picking it up with my mechanical fingers.

The engineers who made my arm have outdone themselves. I can _feel_ the coldness of the black thing, even though it's not _my_ arm. I can feel the little indentations of the holes that dot three sides of the figure.

Wait, what?

I bring the thing closer to my face, peering at it where I kneel. Now I can see the little lens. And I can see what the spoke is—a microphone. Dread trickles through my veins as the implications set in.

A camera and microphone. In my house. Watching me for who knows how long.

I've got to let Plutarch know about this.

I go back to the closet for the box. Pick it up. Knock my elbow on the frame, and react too slowly to stop the photographs from spilling out and fluttering to the floor. Only one lands face-up. My mother. And suddenly, all I want to do is cry.

When I've carefully placed the pictures back inside the box, and tucked the lid back into place, I start down the stairs. My steps are heavy now, not as frantic as before, weighted down as I am by grief. I stop in the kitchen doorway when my vision is so blurry that I can't see anything but gray. Tears roll down my cheeks like rain.

Something soft rubs against my leg through the rough fabric of my pants. A low sound, almost like a growl, accompanies the softness. I blink away the tears and see that it's the hissing cat. Only it's purring now.

I reach down and, to my amazement, the cat stays where it is. Its fur, though grimy and stiff with filth, is thick and comforting.

"_You're_ alive," I tell it. "Pretty resourceful, aren't you?"

It purrs.

"And proud of it, too." It stares up at me, its gaze intent. Watchful and fierce. Unless this place is bombed again, it won't die. Of that, I'm sure.

And it's not as though I can take it with me. I don't have the time or knowledge for pet care, and besides, it's a safe bet that animals aren't allowed in Thirteen.

My decision made, I straighten up and tuck the box more securely under my arm. This cat can survive. When the war's over—and I have to believe that it will be eventually—I'll come back, too. I'll be like the cat. I'll return home.

I wonder if it'll still be covered in ashes by then?

ANOTHER MAN'S WOMAN

MAN ON THE MOON by R.E.M.

And even Jordan River has bodies floating, but you tell me over and over and over again my friend, how you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.


	37. Chapter 37: Deadline

**A/N: I have an excuse, I swear. Don't shoot!**

**I wrote a novel. Those of you who've been with me for a year or more might remember last November, when I said I'd do NaNoWriMo and then I quit after two days. Well, this year I finished, and it left just enough time for me to do homework, eat, and sleep. This is the first time I've touched a computer since I finished; I wrote this chapter longhand and typed it all out.**

**So, anyways, I hope you guys still read this and you aren't too mad at me...**

**Enjoy!**

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Chapter 37: Deadline

"This was in your house," Beetee murmurs, rolling the little camera-and-microphone device between his forefinger and thumb. "In you _house_."

"Yes," I say, a little impatiently. It's been ten minutes and the District 3 engineer hasn't told me anything I don't already know. He's only repeated—

"Hmm… Your house…" I'm about to ask outright if he knows anything helpful, _anything at all_, when his eyes widen. "I've thought of something—there are probably more than one of these things, of course, but I think there might be a way to find and access the information on the drive. It might not work," he warns me, "but I'll try."

"Great," I say. "Thanks a lot."

Beetee sighs. "The thing is, I don't know what this will tell us, if anything. I mean, it's just a camera. All I can imagine is snippets of your conversation, shots of your legs." I know he'll hear other things, too: the screams as I wake nightly from my nightmares. But I don't tell him that. "I'll have to have someone conduct another search of the premises, see if they find anything but my guess is, nothing will be terribly significant."

"Okay." I nod. "But it'll be something, right?"

Beetee purses his lips. "I hope so, Peeta."

Out in the hall, I suppress the urge to kick the wall, which could probably do some serious damage given my new, inhuman toes. I know that it's not Beetee's vagueness that irritates me, it's my own uncertainty. I don't know anything about the state of things, as secluded as I've been these past few weeks in my hospital room.

Footsteps make me look around. As always, the blonde hair and blue eyes send me back to the arena, but this time I recover quickly. I smile. "Madge." I haven't seen her since that last day in the Training Center, and then on the screen in the Sponsor Center, but I've thought about her. I assumed she was busy doing… something. That she was too busy to visit, or even that she didn't know I was in a position to be visited.

Now, the expression on her face makes it clear that she's been deliberately staying away.

Her eyes are hard, and she stops a few feet away from me. "Peeta," she says stonily. I guess the doctors fixed her hearing. I'd nearly forgotten, as horrible as it sounds.

"How… how are you?" I ask, and immediately want to slap myself. Madge looks as though she'd like that, too.

She ignores my question. "Why didn't you tell us?" she demands.

"What?" There are a number of things, and I don't know to which one she's referring.

"The plan to get us tributes out of the arena." Her voice is as cold and hard as steel.

"I was under orders."

"Oh, right!" She snorts derisively, whatever fragile control she held over her emotions breaking completely. "Of course, do what they tell you. But you knew, _you knew_, and you didn't say anything! And now Fritz is _dead_!"

I try to explain. "But I had to—"

"If you'd told me, or Fritz, or both of us, we could have stayed safe—we'd have stayed put and waited." Her eyes are sparkling dangerously. "You didn't, though… and he died… which means that it's your fault."

I wonder how many times I'll have to hear someone blame me for a death? The problem is that the accuser is always correct. It _is_ my fault, and there's nothing I can do. "I'm sorry. Really." I sound so pathetic.

Madge glares at me. "I hope you win this war," she says bitterly. "That way, you'll have to live with what you've done for _years_." She turns and stalks away.

"Was that her only reason for coming down here?" I ask the empty air.

"Most likely," says Beetee, stepping out into the corridor. "She's the Undersee girl, right? Your female tribute for the Quell?"

I nod. "Her cousin was Reaped with her."

"It was cruel to put that envelope in the box. Even for the Capitol, that's reaching a new level of atrocity."

My communicuff beeps. I look down at my wrist. "Plutarch wants to see me in—" I check the screen—"the debriefing room?" My uncertainty turns the statement into a question. "Do you know where that is?"

"Just scan your cuff," advises Beetee. _I can do that?_ "The debriefing room is the third on the left from where the elevator will let you off, on the far side of the hall."

With a word of thanks, I set off for the elevator. Why I've never noticed the sensor embedded in the wall, I can't say, but when I pass my communicuff in front of it, there's a beeping noise and the elevator begins to move immediately.

As instructed, I cross the hall and take the third door on the left. When I step inside, Plutarch looks up from the papers on the table before him.

"Ah! Peeta! So glad you could make it."

I know it's just a habit left over from his time as Gamemaker, but the customary phrase bothers me. _So glad you could make it._ I don't really have a choice here, now, do I? "What's going on?"

A woman with impeccably cut silvery-gray hair walks out of the corner she's been standing in. I hadn't noticed her. "Hello, Soldier Mellark."

I still have to get used to the way that everyone over fourteen is addressed as "soldier." More particularly, I have to get used to hearing my own name in that context. "…Hello," I say in return. Plutarch winces, but I have no clue what I've done wrong. I don't even know who this woman is, for crying out loud. Nevertheless, I shake the hand she offers me.

"Have a seat," invites Plutarch. "The president was just telling me her plans." The meaningful look he throws in my direction is not wasted on me. I know that I've just met Alma Coin, the President of District 13. I can't help thinking that it's about time.

I sit between the two of them, so that we form a kind of triangle. "What plans, exactly?"

Coin clasps her hands on the table. I notice that her eyes are gray, like Katniss's, but they have no emotion in them. Not so much like Katniss, after all. For all that she tries to wear a mask, her eyes give away glimmers of what she feels. This woman, though, has perfected her poker face. She begins to speak. "In a month's time, we'll be sending a few squads of soldiers to an outlying part of District One, where the rebel commanders will deploy the troops as they see fit. As the Mockingjay, it is crucial that we obtain footage of you in action."

Despite the bloodshed that I know I'll be party to, I can't help feeling excited at the prospect of going somewhere, doing something. The trip to Twelve is the only time I've left Thirteen, and that was far from productive, as far as I'm concerned. "All right," I say. "I'm game." It occurs to me that maybe Coin wasn't looking for my consent.

She doesn't nod, doesn't even blink. "In order for you to be cleared for duty, you'll need to finish your training before the month is up. Plutarch tells me that you have progressed sufficiently to be able to meet this requirement."

I catch Plutarch's wink out of the corner of my eye, but Coin is watching me to the exclusion of all else. I'm not so surprised that I can't say, with only a moment's hesitation, "…That's right."

Coin stands. "Plutarch, I'll see you tomorrow." She just _barely_ inclines her head in my direction. "Soldier Mellark." Then she goes to the door, and then she's gone.

Plutarch rises as well, but I ask him to wait. "Why did you tell her I can finish my training in a month?"

He shrugs. "You'll finish. Trust me."

"But what makes you so sure?"

Plutarch raises his eyebrows. "Are you going to let them down, all those people out there?" He waves his arm in an expansive gesture, indicating the rest of the world. "They're fighting for you; Are you the kind of person who'd let that go unrewarded, even if it means going into the thick of things yourself?"

I can only stare at him. I barely know him, but he seems to understand exactly what's going on in my mind.

Plutarch winks again, tapping the side of his head with his index finger. "Gamemaker, remember?"

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**A/N: All I can picture for that line is Johnny Depp telling Orlando Bloom, "Pirate," in his smug Captain-Jack-voice :) Review, please! It really will make my day. 100th reviewer gets a character/one-shot or something similar.**


	38. Chapter 38: Humbled

**A/N: Hope you enjoy :D Next update should be between Dec. 30th and Jan. 5th, because I probably won't be updating on New Year's day, due to lack of sleep.**

**To anybody with a horrible winter cold like me, I hope you get well soon!**

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Chapter 38: Humbled

It's hard work, I learn, to catch up in my training. I can assemble a gun in my sleep, but shooting it? Not so much. Shooting it _accurately_? Even worse. I don't think the problem lies in my new arm, but just in my general lack of skill.

I'm not the only victor getting ready to fight. Copernia from District 5, Seeder from 11, Johanna, and Finnick are also drilling; I know because I've watched from a distance. While we don't interact in any way, I can tell that they're a lot more competent than I am, though, and I can't help thinking that, really, I'm not at all meant to do this.

I understand after a few days that Beetee isn't going anywhere near a battlefield, due to his technological genius. Frankly, I don't blame Coin for keeping him as close to home as possible. He's working on a way to infiltrate the Capitol's airwaves at the moment—it'll help the rebels both learn things and broadcast their own propaganda.

Most of the drills I do are just precision shooting. There are a ton of dummies aboveground in Peacekeeper uniforms that I'm supposed to be "killing." Behind the thin layers of protective armor in the outfits are packets of red liquid that burst when they're hit hard enough. The goal is to burst the vital packets—head, chest, stomach, even the legs in some cases—as quickly as possible, using a minimum amount of bullets. I'm not doing so well.

When I finish with my most recent round of shooting, I pause a moment. The dummies have holes all over each of their uniforms, and the sleeve of one is hanging only by a few shreds of fabric, but I've only managed to rupture one packet. Granted, it's a straight-up forehead shot, but it's only _one_.

It bothers me that I'm learning how to kill people. Honestly, a year and a half ago, I'd have said that by this point in time I'd be just about ready to start helping full time in the bakery. Frosting cakes, kneading dough. Instead, I'm just about ready to start murdering recklessly.

I have used this phrase in front of others, and all I get are weird expressions. Sometimes I think one or two people in the room might see my point, or even agree with me. But most of the time, it's as if everyone is asking, how can you say that? Don't you understand what _they've_ done? The answer is yes. I mean, a person can't go through an arena and still be blind to the Capitol's crimes. But still—

"They're shipping you out in three weeks? Good lord, you'll be slaughtered." The voice behind me chuckles. "Or maybe I should say that the other side _won't_ be."

I spin around, which is more difficult to do with metal legs than it might seem. "Who-?" Then I see. "Oh. You. Hello." Finnick Odair stands in a combat uniform at the edge of the field. "Are they sending you off?" I know he's good enough to fight.

He shakes his head. "No, I'm just breaking in the suit. I'll be on the same squad to District One as you will be. We can get _chummy_." He rubs his hands together and grins.

I roll my eyes. "Thanks, but I'd rather not."

He really laughs now, and walks forward. I give him my gun when he holds out his hand. "You can't concentrate on speed right away," he says, squinting to peer down the barrel. "You just _aim_…" He pulls the trigger, and sends a bullet flying at the sleeve that's still barely attached—and now it's not attached at all. The white material flutters to the leaf-strewn ground. "Once you master that, you can go faster." All at once, the packets on all five of the dummies are split open as an army of bullets tears the air. Red splotches bloom beneath the costumes.

Finnick hands the gun back to me, and I take it. "I'll keep that in mind," I say, thinking that I'll have to move on to another set of mock Peacekeepers now. And I can't even say that I've succeeded. _I feel like a child._ I start to walk away and then realize that Finnick is still standing there. "Do you want something?"

He nods. "I want to give you some advice… Well, maybe that's not the best way to put it. I want to warn you." I wait, and he continues. "At your interview last year, you let the whole country know what you thought of Katniss Everdeen. Were you telling the truth?"

I can feel myself blushing, and being embarrassed by the blush only makes it worse. I nod. What does it matter? She's not here anymore. Probably dead… I focus on what Finnick says to block out those thoughts.

"She's in the Capitol," he continues. What's he getting at? I know all of this, of course I do. "What they do to people they've captured, especially people with, ah, _undesirable_ ideas and deeds—it's not good."

"I know." Look what they did to me, to you, Finnick, just by chance!

He grinds the heel of his boot into the dirt. "It's worse than whatever you're thinking of. Trust me. If—"

"Why are you telling me this?" I interrupt. Is he just trying to scare me?

"I want you to realize that if we ever get her back, the odds of her being completely sane are not in our favor."

In my mind's eye, I see the room on the hovercraft again—Annie Cresta huddled in Finnick's arms, terrified of the things in her head. But, no, that can't be right. "Katniss is strong," I protest. "She'll be…" I know she won't be _fine_, but she'll be… Okay? All right?

"I just want you to know," Finnick tells me.

I don't say anything else. I can't. As he walks away, I bring the gun back up to my shoulder and shoot.

Within an hour or two, I can hit almost eighty percent of my targets. The Peacekeeper dummies are all but decimated. During another fifteen minutes, the last before my scheduled training on the shooting range is up, I shoot every single thing at which I aim.

Over the course of the next two days, I increase in speed. I never get to Finnick's pace—not even close, really—but at least I can go into the formal _lessons,_ where I'll learn combat techniques and strategies. Methods of defense and offense.

It turns out that there's a whole wing of District 13 devoted to the various weapons the soldiers use. Then there are several areas completely dedicated to the outfitting, preparing, and education of soldiers to be sent into combat. This last one is where I'll be spending a lot of my time for the next two and a half weeks.

When I walk into the room for my group, 2E—not really sure what that stands for—heads turn in my direction immediately. This is probably due to the way my lurching, swaying gait stands out, even in peripheral vision. I take the first seat I see, grateful to get out of sight. Why does this feel like the first day of school?

One girl, about my age, smiles at me in a friendly way. Her chair is two down from mine, but nobody is sitting in the ones between us. She leans toward me a little, purely out of politeness. "Hi. I'm Satin. You're Peeta Mellark, aren't you?"

I can tell from her name that she comes from District 1. Her immediate recognition of _me_ comes as a surprise. I try not to be irritated as I nod. "Yeah. In the flesh." Why did I say that?

Satin laughs. "You look pretty banged up."

I shrug. I can't think of any way to respond to such an understatement. Instead, I say, "So, are you scheduled for duty anytime soon?"

It's her turn to shrug. "I don't know. Probably not, but then, it's not really for me to decide, is it?" She smiles. "I'll go when they tell me to go, I guess."

"But…" I'm not sure how to phrase what I'm thinking. "Don't be offended, but I thought, with so many Victors, the people from District One were on the Capitol's side." I realize two things immediately after I finish talking. One, that I don't actually know if Satin _is_ from District One, and two, that her presence here, in District Thirteen is proving me wrong at this very second.

"None taken," she says, "but you're wrong. We only win the Games because we train."

"What about all the talk about honor and glory for the Victors?"

She snorts. "We're pretty much required to say stuff like that. I mean, there are some people who really think like that. Creeps. But for the most part, it's play-acting. Although," she says, "I hear they weren't kidding about the luxury."

"Don't you have that already?" I can't help pointing out.

She eyes me speculatively. "You really _are_ from Twelve, huh?"

"What do you mean? Of course I'm from Twelve."

"No, it's just that—well, yes, we've got more than others, but we're not from the Capitol. For most of us, we want the Games _over_." Satin is holding my gaze. "Do you understand?" I don't blame her for wanting to be sure that the would-be leader of the rebellion isn't prejudiced against her district.

I nod. "Yeah. Thanks."

Satin smiles again. "No problem. I think if you ask around, you might find out some stuff about the other districts that you didn't know, either. Hmm?"

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**A/N: Weird, choppy ending... hopefully the next chapter will have a more "natural" feel. Please, _please_ review!**


	39. Chapter 39: Preparations

**A/N: WOOHOO! 100 REVIEWS! Lucy817 wrote the 100th review, so thanks so much, Lucy! I've PM-ed her with the prize mentioned at the end of Chapter 37.**

**Next update should be between Jan. 20th and Jan. 22nd. Happy New Year, everyone!**

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Chapter 39: Preparations

"The mighty warrior returns."

"Back from the hunt so soon?"

I raise my eyebrows. "The bathroom is so amazing?" I slide into my seat with the usual clatter, only slightly muffled by clothing. Metal limbs are _loud_.

Brookings grins and moves to brush his sandy-brown hair out of his eyes, but remembers too late that due to his new military cut, there is almost no hair left to brush away. "Nah, we just thought that maybe you got ambushed."

"Yeah," says Satin. "You take forever." She laughs.

I try to keep my face from flushing red, and ignore that last comment. "Nobody ambushes me," I say. "The doctors gave me super hearing when they made me a robot." I stick a spoon into the mashed turnip slop and grimace at the taste.

"I wonder if you're magnetic?" Brookings is also from District 1. He's Satin's older brother, but the two of them have none of the distant, uncertain relationship that I shared with my siblings. Don't ask me why. "That'd be pretty cool."

Satin holds her spoon near my arm. "Nope. Anyways, dolt, it's only cool until they start dropping bombs. He'd be plastered from head to toe in the things."

I have to smile. "Personally, I think I'm a magnet for explosive things without actually attracting metal."

We all laugh, remembering just a few days ago, in training. We were working on grenade tactics—how to avoid them, not how to throw them. And at least five times, I was within the zone that means, had we been working with real bombs, I would have been very much dead.

Satin and Brookings are lifesavers, I've decided. Not in the literal sense or in that we help each other out with _everything_, but just that they keep me from my thoughts. Right now, that's the best thing anyone can do for me. My brain is becoming a dark place where hope is vanishing rapidly.

"Attention, soldiers!"

At the shout of Ricket, our training commander, we form a line across the field. Chin up, shoulders back, spine straight. Ricket walks down the row and eyes each of our group of thirty in turn. I always feel like she's skinning me with just her gaze. That woman could flay Johanna Mason. I swear…

"You've completed your preparation," she announces when she reaches the end of the line. "This means that you demonstrate proficiency in all areas of weapons, strategy, and endurance." She pauses to skewer us all with razor eyes. Beside me, Brookings coughs. "You will report to the Block at eighteen o'clock today, in two hours. All of you _will_ pass, and I will never see your faces in my class again. Dismissed."

Even a speech as short as this one is enough to make us sweat, though that might be simply because of what's to come before the day is out. We all know that the Block, the final test before we ship out, will be tougher than the training. And one of the rumors, that it targets everyone's personal weaknesses, scares everyone silly.

Nobody changes out of his or her uniforms—what's the point? We'll just have to change back—and it seems as if everyone has the same idea. All of us end up in the holding room right outside the Block. Though I'm not alone, the feel of the place is like the Launch Room underneath the arena, albeit less malevolent. I squeeze my eyes shut.

"What do you think they'll do?" Satin asks her brother. She's uncharacteristically subdued. "How will they 'target our weaknesses'? Is that even the truth?"

"It is," Brookings replies. "Axel left for District Eight last week. He told me."

I open my eyes. "What did he say, exactly?"

"He said to follow directions and do your best."

"That's it?" Satin asks, sounding disappointed. "No hints?"

"It's not as if he knows how they decide for each person," Brookings says. "He only had his personal experience to go on. And—hey, speaking of experience…" Brookings looks at me, a little uncertain. "You have any tips?"

I know he means the arena. But that's not something I want to discuss, especially not now, feeling the way that I do. I shake my head. "I don't have a clue how the Games work. Can't help you there." I hesitate. "Sorry."

We pass the rest of our two hours in silence, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts, oblivious to the quiet conversations around us. I try to think of what my weakness is. Immediately, my "metalman" limbs, as Brookings once called them, come to mind. There's my fragile mental state. My fear of the Capitol, though I try to control that. My bad experiences in the arena. That's just the tip of my flaw iceberg.

I know my time is up when they start calling our names. Abelia Skimmis, a District 11 refugee, is first. She doesn't return. Brookings is second. Nobody comes back after he or she enters the Block.

My name is the twenty-sixth. I rise from my chair. Satin and the other three soldiers who remain watch me. "Good luck," Satin tells me. I nod.

The door slides open and I step inside.

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**A/N: Ooooh, cliffhanger... please review! What do you think Peeta will find in the Block? What do you think of Satin & Brookings? Let me know :)**


	40. Chapter 40: The Block

**A/N: Here it is, short like I promised... I'm taking an indefinite hiatus until I can revise some of my NaNoWriMo stuff, because there's an offer of 5 free copies until June 30th and I don't want to waste that chance on a rough draft that I'm not happy with. So, sorry guys. But this is not the end! There will be more, I promise you!**

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Chapter 40: The Block

It's pretty dark in the Block, to be honest. Since it's supposed to be a representation of a real Capitol block, I'd guess that this is either dawn or dusk. The street is deserted.

I heft the gun on my shoulder and wonder what I have to do. As if on cue, a voice speaks in my ear, through the microphone hooked there, telling me my objective: to capture the block. _Well,_ I think, _there's only one way to do that._ I move forward.

Almost immediately, Peacekeepers appear. One of them almost blows my head off with a grenade, but I duck at the last moment and hear a computer-generated explosion behind me. Whew. I dodge all the other grenades, too.

When I get my bearings, I start shooting back at the Peacekeepers; the only reason I haven't already is because I know it's stupid to waste bullets on blind shots. Besides, I doubt I can both sidestep explosives and pull a trigger at the same time. In any case, once I get my brain into the right mode, my training takes over. It's easy to follow the pattern: shoot, dodge, shoot, guard my back, dodge, shoot…

Apparently, Plutarch knew what he was talking about.

It's all too simple. I know something's going to happen, and soon, because surely the infamous Block can't be this straightforward? And then I must step on a mine or something, since the next thing I know, bars of metal are sweeping at about knee height from the nearest buildings. There's not even time to think. I end up doing some sort of hopscotch-dance across the street, and I have _no idea_ how I'm still shooting—

And then there are no more Peacekeepers, and the bars retract into the foundations of the buildings. I point the gun around wildly for a minute before I realize that the lights are on fully now. It's over. I'm done.

At the exit, someone official looking stamps my hand. Then he directs me to room 657. I go without any hesitation. I did it!

Room 657 turns out to be in the command section of District 13's rabbit warren. I enter to see Plutarch, Beetee, and one of the more powerful officers whose name I can't remember, talking to a row of people lined up against the wall. When I quickly scan those people, I see Finnick, Seeder, Shine, and several other unfamiliar faces. It crosses my mind that Plutarch is probably behind these arrangements.

But he doesn't say or do anything to confirm this suspicion. It's just, "Line up, Soldier," and then he's back to explaining something on a screen that's set into the wall. At the moment, it's displaying some sort of map with lights.

It only takes a minute or two for me to understand that he's explaining the layout of District 1. I listen to a boatload of information on streets, prominent buildings, and places where Capitol infiltrators are likely to frequent. There's also a lot to learn about the jobs we'll be doing. Of course, there's no way to know for sure, since the rebels in the District will be dictating our assignments, but the work seems to be along the lines of attacking Capitol strongholds and scouting the wild area outside the District limits for spies or any other "nasty, unwanted stuff," as Plutarch eloquently puts it.

Beetee's just starting to explain some little wired boxes that he's invented when the door opens again. For a moment, I can't make out who the newcomer is, given the very bright light in the hallway and the rather dim light in the room, the better to see the screen.

But only for a moment. Then it becomes perfectly clear that the olive skin, gray eyes, and altogether short-tempered expression belong to Gale Hawthorne.

Well. This ought to be fun.


	41. Chapter 41: Speculation

**A/N: Hello! I'm ba-ack and I finished my book :) Sorry it took so long, but now I can concentrate on this. I hope you guys like this chapter, but I should probably tell you that I wrote this on 3.5 hours of sleep since I went to the theater last night... at midnight... can you guess why? If you guys want to gush about/hate on the movie, I'm open. I'm dying to discuss it :)**

**But seriously, the next chapter will be more substantial. This is kind of "filler" so I can update at long last.**

**Next update should be around April 6-8.**

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Chapter 41: Speculation

It doesn't take long for me to figure out that Gale and I are of one mind when it comes to the deployment groups. Not only are we on the same squad, we're assigned to the same hovercraft. I wouldn't be so unhappy about it were it not possible to actually _feel_ Gale's anger simmering across the room, directed, of course, at me.

I ignore him, though, and talk to Finnick and Satin instead. Despite what Satin said weeks ago about the way most of her district feels about the "glory" of the Games, both she and Finnick have hints of the stereotypical Career mentality when it comes to what we'll be doing in District 1.

"But you already know everything about the place, don't you?" I ask, remembering that Satin is in fact a District 1 native.

"More or less," she says, shrugging. "But I'm sure they'll send me lots of places I've never had reason to go before. Or places where nobody but the highest officials were allowed." She smiles. "If that happens, though, I get the feeling that the purpose will be to demolish whatever high-security building it is."

Finnick chimes in. "What about the people?" he asks. "Will they welcome the rebels or see us as an intrusion?"

"I imagine it's just like in District 4," she says, "it depends on who you ask. District 12, too," she says, nodding at me.

"Ha, not really. No District 12 to ask anymore," I point out, and then regret it immediately. "But, yeah, you're probably right," I finish lamely.

Silence reigns for a moment before Finnick clears his throat. "What do you expect to find, Hawthorne?" he asks.

It's clear that Gale has been listening, because he answers without hesitation. "Something to end this thing," he says. "One way or another."

Satin raises her eyebrows at me. "What a downer," she mouths. I give a small smile, but I can't help thinking that Gale's probably right—whatever happens in District 1 is more than likely to be a turning point in the war, but it may not be in our favor. Of course, that's not exactly unusual, is it?

* * *

We get our first look at District 1 several hours later. It's dark by then, and the clock reads 1:04. The only thing visible out the window is a tall building in the town. I think it's the Justice building.

Finnick asks the pilot what's on my mind. "How can you land when it's so dark?"

"This thing's practically flyin' itself," he calls back from the front of the craft. "Got special programming, it does." Even as he speaks, we start the descent. Within minutes, the hovercraft has landed in a stretch of grassy area far from the more populated areas of the district.

Satin yawns as we step down and onto solid ground. "All I want is a real bed," she mumbles, shouldering her standard-issue pack. We all sleepily do the same. Around us, the soldiers from the second hovercraft are disembarking.

The rebel leader in District 1 is a woman named Lustre Simmons, but I only know that because Finnick tells me in an undertone. To us, she's Sergeant Simmons, and frankly I don't want to mess with her. Though she's at least two feet shorter than I am, there is more muscle on her body than on the training commander back in 13. I tell myself to mind my manners.

"Welcome, soldiers," Sergeant Simmons says when we're assembled. The hovercrafts have already left. "You'll be here in District 1 for several weeks unless you're needed more direly elsewhere. You'll be on duty first thing tomorrow morning; I understand that you already know the layout, so there are no excuses. Bunkers are this way." Without further ado, she turns and walks off.

We follow, nearly asleep on our feet. Almost everyone dozed onboard, but the thing is, hovercrafts aren't very conducive to substantial sleep. It's a relief when we get to the bunkers. Satin, Seeder, and the other women head to their building and the rest of us enter our own.

The room is small, with a tiny bathroom attached almost as an afterthought. Still, there are enough beds, which is all that matters to me at the moment—and, apparently, all that matters to the rest of them. I think I set a record for the amount of time it takes to get into bed. Then I don't remember anything else. I'm out. Tomorrow will be a big, big, big day…

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**A/N: Please review :) Love you guys.**


	42. Chapter 42: Patrol

Chapter 42: Patrol

"Up and at 'em, boys!" It's Sergeant Simmons, wider awake than I've ever been so early in the morning. I can't even see; it's still dark outside. I scramble to my feet. Back in 13, when I was still recovering from my surgery, Delphi and Dr. Reeves both told me that most prosthetics require overnight removal, but not mine. The new technology means that I'm ready for anything, as far as missing limbs are concerned, and nothing's going to fall off if I'm running.

This being said, I can get dressed as quickly as any of the others, and do so reluctantly. Then we shuffle outside, trying to pinch ourselves awake. The women are just as lethargic. After the morning salute, we begin a breakfast of some sort of gruel. It's not like the stuff back in 12, although I never had much of that anyways—this is a little sweeter and less lumpy. I decide that I like it.

We wash dishes in some of the coldest water I've ever felt, even compared to the stuff in the arena. Satin tells me it's fed by the snowmelt in the mountains. In any case, it wakes me up, along with the rest of the crew. Then we line up again, just as we did the night before. Streaks of light are beginning to spread throughout the sky.

Sergeant Simmons looks at us for a moment, then claps her hands, businesslike. "Right! Odair, Friet, and Lest, you're to go with Wicker." She gestures at one of the higher-ranking soldiers. Finnick, Satin, and Seeder leave with him. "Bernia, Arum, and Rynne, with Mattes." Three more of my company, whom I know only by sight, depart with another officer. This leaves only me, Gale Hawthorne, and a woman from District 7. Sergeant Simmons nods at a third commander, a man with dark hair pulled back into a short horsetail. "Garrow, you take Hawthorne, Walsh, and Mellark."

Garrow inclines his head towards us, his expression blank below his dark glasses. The enormous gun on his back is larger than the ones we carry, and I'm sure that we'll be storming some Capitol stronghold straight away, but after a minute of walking behind him, Garrow says, "We're border patrol."

I know I shouldn't argue. I ought to be good and keep my mouth shut. With considerable effort, I manage it.

Gale doesn't. "Border patrol?"

"That's what I said." Garrow doesn't turn around.

"You can't be serious." He sounds as if he thinks the commander might actually be joking. "Why is it even necessary? I mean, most of the other districts—"

Garrow interrupts him to recite a small poem that I've heard a hundred times since starting my training in 13. "_Yours is not to question why/Yours is but to do or die,_ Soldier Hawthorne." He keeps walking, not breaking stride once.

I sneak a glance at the woman from District 7. Her light brown hair is cropped short at her earlobes, making her already angular face appear even more so. She looks at me, too, eyebrows raised in disbelief at Gale's impertinence.

I can't figure out what he's trying to do. The only thing I can think of is to test Garrow's authority, but it doesn't really make any sense—for all of the maps we've studied, none of us _know_ District 1, and the officer does. But said officer cuts off my musings as he turns around to face the rest of us. We've reached the fence.

"All right," he begins in a voice as rough as sandpaper. "It should take us most of the morning to do a half circuit, and the rest of the day to go around the whole thing. We can't go yet, though. Night patrol's not back yet. I'll take the time to lay down a few rules."

I glance at Gale to see how he'll take this, but he doesn't even blink.

"First thing you need to know: there's a real threat out there. It may look like nothing but trees and boulders, but that's what you're supposed to think. A few times already, we've had to rally the forces and fight off Peacekeepers fresh from the Capitol, so stay on your toes. Second, breaks. You don't get them unless you're missing a limb or puking your guts out. Do your business in the bushes, please. I've got some food in my pack. Almost every day, we'll still be out here at suppertime. Both that and lunch are eaten while walking.

"Third—and this one's important, so you better not break it—you follow the orders I give. No ifs, ands, or buts. I don't want any fighting, either," Garrow adds, looking, for some reason, straight at me. I raise my eyebrows. Can't help it.

"When does the night patrol finish?" asks the woman from 7. I remember Sergeant Simmons said her last name was Walsh.

"Depends on what they find out there," Garrow says. "Should be any minute now, though." He looks up at the sky, which is the usual gray of early morning.

He's spot-on. We only wait for five minutes or so before four soldiers walk around a bend in the fence and into our line of vision. With only a nod for Garrow, they head towards the main city area—not the bunkers—and we start our patrol.

It's boring. I don't say anything, but it _is_. Tree, tree, tree, rock, tree… I'm propping my eyelids open after fifteen minutes. I really hate getting up early, but I suppose I ought to have buckled down by now and forced myself to get used to it.

Anyways. I try counting the trees, but there are too many. I do the same for the boulders, but there aren't enough. So I count my footsteps. When we've walked for a half hour and I've reached more than a thousand, I realize this isn't working at all. I fall back a little until I'm walking next to Walsh.

"Think we'll find anything out here?" I ask her, reminding myself of the conversation on the hovercraft.

She shrugs. "If we do, it probably won't be anything important. I can't imagine someone getting past that." She inclines her head towards the fence on our left side, which is humming with electricity. The sound is a little foreign to me.

"The fence was almost never live in Twelve," I tell her.

She snorts. "Lucky you. In Seven there was never any chance of that."

"Did you use wood in fires?" I ask, truly curious. I know next to nothing about the other Districts. "I mean, I know coal burns better, but seeing how it's the lumber District…"

Walsh shakes her head. "Nope. Whatever we chopped got carted off to the Capitol right away. We used coal, just like everyone else." She hesitates before saying, "I wonder if wood will become the norm now that Twelve's been… you know, devastated." She peeks at me out of the corner of her eye, as if checking to see how I'll react, but I only shrug.

"I wonder," I say.

* * *

The day passes slowly, even with conversation. I'm more grateful for my mechanic legs now more than I've ever been before, because when we roll into bed, I'm not sore at all, but Gale is almost collapsing. Walking all day is taxing, though. I'm still almost asleep on my feet by the time we get back to the bunker with the night watch in our places.

The next day, I'm dreading the boredom that awaits me, because small talk can only do so much and I get the feeling that both Walsh and I are avoiding discussing the bigger things. After the morning lineup, the four of us take over for the night watch.

Nothing happens until lunch, and even that's not really anything at all. I bite into a piece of cheese and feel something small bounce off the back of my head. Looking around, I see Walsh in conversation with Garrow. Gale is studying the sky, all innocence. I'm up at the head of the group today so I can't retaliate, but when the next pebble hits me, I speak up.

"You want to say something?" I call, not too loudly.

He waits a moment. "Nah. It's fun." Another little rock makes contact. "Not much of a challenge, though. Your head's too big to miss."

"We're _all_ bored, Hawthorne," I say. "Cut it out."

Once again, a pebble _ping_s off my head. He mutters something, but I can't make it out.

_Whatever._

We're almost at the full circuit point—dusk is just falling—when I hear it. Crackling in the trees. My first thought is that it's just a wild animal, but my gut tells me otherwise. Whatever is making the noise is too heavy for that.

Well, maybe I'm imagining it. But by the way Garrow pauses in his walk, I know I'm not. Gale and Walsh are listening, too. "What is it?" I ask quietly. "Do you know?"

Garrow shakes his head, which bothers me more than I'd like to admit. He's been in control of this whole thing since I got assigned this position, and if he's uncertain, I've definitely got no clue what's going on.

Garrow shrugs. "Best keep moving," he says after another second or two. "But be quiet, and stay alert. Don't want to be taken by surprise."

The sound fades as we move on. The night patrol listens as Garrow explains the small delay and thank him for the heads up. Then they're gone. We all head back towards the bunkers.

We've been walking for maybe a minute or two when Walsh, at the tail end of our group, stops. "Listen!" she says sharply. We all fall silent.

At first, I hear nothing. But then the sounds start to carry across the open field towards us. Chilling me to the bone.

The night patrol is screaming.


	43. Chapter 43: Battle

**A/N: Wow, it _has_ been a while! I've been so busy with finals, Germany, and more finals. BUT I finally wrote this. I'm quite happy with it.**

**But I can't tell you when the next chapter will be up. The biweekly thing is kind of disintegrating, at least for now.**

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Chapter 43: Battle

My first instinct is to run towards the noise, but I catch myself. That would probably be the most idiotic thing I could do. I see Gale do the same thing: I can see it because he actually takes several quick steps before halting. He, Walsh, and I all look at Garrow.

He's staring back where we came from. After a second he blinks and begins running full tilt towards the bunker. All three of us follow him without question.

When we get back, Garrow tells us to get some sleep and then he runs off, I assume to let Sergeant Simmons know. The sound is much quieter here, but still audible. Or maybe that's because I'm looking for it.

Walsh looks at me. "You got a clue what's happening back there?"

I shake my head. "No idea." Without another word, I go into the men's bunker, with Gale on my heels. I think for a second about flipping on the lights, but decide against it. In the end, it doesn't matter, because I learn in the next heartbeat that everyone's awake anyway.

They all sit up, but Finnick's the one to speak. "What's that noise?" he asks. "Sounds like people yelling."

I look at Gale automatically, as if for instructions, but of course, he offers nothing. "Um," I begin. I am not doing well here for some reason. "Ahem, well, it _is_ yelling, but I don't know why."

"What do you mean?" One of the men from District 6, Something Arum, looks indignant.

"I wasn't there," I say shortly. Wow, I must be really tired. I realize it's true; I can barely keep my eyes open. I mumble something that's supposed to be reassuring but comes out like mush before letting myself fall into my bunk face-first.

"Wait," Finnick says, yanking me upright again. "What are we going to do?"

I drag myself into business mode. "Garrow just told our patrol to sleep. I think he's gone to alert Sergeant Simmons or someone, anyone who would have a plan." I yawn, knowing it looks like I don't care but unable to help it. "I imagine they'll give us whatever orders are necessary." I wilt into my bed again, and this time no one stops me.

But I don't actually get to sleep. Within two minutes the lights are on, in the women's bunker as well as ours, and a man who seems very much in charge is barking orders. "Who's on border patrol?" he asks, first thing. Gale and I say we are. He turns his glare on us. "You two will stay behind, with the third member of your trio."

"What—?" Gale begins. The questioning of orders doesn't bother me for once because, to my surprise, I find myself in agreement. _Staying behind?_ You've got to be kidding me.

Apparently not. "I'm sure you'd love to be in the thick of things," the guy growls, "but we don't send zombies into combat. Your friend's almost asleep on his feet."

It takes me several seconds to realize he's pointing at me. I blink and lift my chin. _Stay awake!_ I order myself, adding an expletive. This is quite unusual for me, this drowsiness, but I hate how it makes me almost lazy.

Gale rolls his eyes at me but doesn't argue anymore. We both sit on our bunks as, around us, everyone suits up and grabs their guns. After fifteen minutes, both bunkers are deserted but for Walsh, Gale and me.

Gale gives me a look, one that isn't as sour as the one he usually reserves just for me. I think he's going to speak, but he just switches the lights off and closes his eyes. I'm not sure if he falls asleep, but _I_ sure do.

I have one of the worst nightmares I can remember since leaving the arena. Rue appears, terrified, on the open plain where the Cornucopia sat. Where both she and Prim died. Rue's hair grows long and yellow, her skin lightens, even as I think this. Then Copernia's daughter, Vulpe. Next: Thresh, Fritz, and Clove. My mother and brothers, as well as everyone I can remember from District Twelve. All of the people I've killed. They scream at me with the voices of the night patrol. A rumbling noise drowns that sound so I can only see their hateful faces, blaming me. The rumbling grows louder, louder, and then—a deafening explosion and I can _feel_ my body ripping apart from the blast—

"Mellark! C'mon."

I shudder into consciousness and bolt upright, but not before my own boot hits me in the head. I cringe away, then make an effort to calm down and gather my wits. I glare at Gale, whose arm is still extended from throwing my personal footwear.

"Sweet dreams?" Gale smirks.

I ignore that with difficulty. "What's going on?" I notice belatedly that he's in the middle of putting on protective padding over his combat suit.

"They told me thirty seconds ago to get ready, and wake you up," he explains. "You should get ready, too." This is fairly unnecessary, seeing as I'm already springing into action, pulling on my suit and lacing up the boots after that.

A minute later, I'm hurrying out of the bunker behind Gale with my gun bouncing against my back. Walsh and two officers, a man and woman, are waiting for us. When we line up, they waste no time. "The Capitol has launched an attack on the border," says the woman. "You three are sufficiently recovered from your patrol to fight now."

"The Capitol has spies in the One, of course," says the man, "who have disabled the fence's electricity. They broke through hours ago. There's technology that we've never had access to, though we knew it was being tested for a few years. That's why you all need these."

The woman hands us each several cartridges of bullets, which don't look like anything special. "These are made differently than what's in your guns right now," she tells us. "They can punch through the metal of the Capitol's machines."

"What machines, exactly?" asks Walsh as we load our guns without delay. I'm glad she's spoken up, because for once Gale is silent and while I would really like to know, I'm afraid to ask.

"Our sources in the Capitol call 'em mech suits. There are soldiers inside them, but they're pretty heavily protected. And _they've_ got some big guns, too." Then they explain about our orders (kill or incapacitate the Capitol soldiers and their machines) and what to do afterwards (report back to the bunker), but they spend a lot longer on that than seems necessary. After that, we set out at a fast pace towards the border fence.

It's not difficult to hear the fighting anymore, largely due to the gunfire. My sense of trepidation grows with every step I take, but I beat it back. I'm less vulnerable than everyone else, I tell myself. Half my limbs are metal. They don't _hurt_. I'll be fine.

Uh—huh. Yeah right. We round a bend in the fence and see—

It's an expansive war zone. Like they said, there are people in big metal suits stomping around, and though they appear untouched, there are giant dents in the armor. Finnick, bleeding out of a cut on his jaw, spots me immediately. "Mellark! Get over here and help us out!" he yells.

As I hurry to do so, I see that he and several other soldiers, most of whom did not come from 13, have somehow pinned one of the mech suited-soldiers to the ground and are hacking away at the metal. Apparently they didn't know about the thick armor and don't have our special bullets.

"Hang on a sec," I say and put my gun to the face plate on the suit's head. I see a face inside, sweaty and terrified. Oh, no. I'm nearly sick with what I'm about to do, so I look away. Pull the trigger. Shield my own face from the shattered glass that goes flying.

"Whoa," Finnick says in my ear. It's the only way he can talk normally and still be heard. "How come we don't get the cool ammo?"

"Sorry," I say. "I guess—" and then we drag each other to the ground as bullets rip the air where our heads just were.

That's enough to cut the chatter; in fact, I don't talk for several minutes after that. It's all running, fighting, dodging shots even as I blow up Capitol men. That's something I notice in the midst of everything: there isn't a single woman soldier who's not a rebel. I don't really have time to dwell on that, though.

The fighting seems to last hours and, at the same time, just a few minutes. Killing, killing, killing. All I know is that by the time it's over, no one's unscathed. A bullet grazed my side, just missing my ribs, and I have numerous cuts from jagged metal on the mech suits I've destroyed. Satin, standing nearby, wasn't so lucky. She's actually got a bit of someone's chest plate sticking out of her arm. Finnick appears to be convincing her not to pull it out yet. While it's horrible to see Satin in pain, I have to agree. It's like with Prim, though not so fatal—pulling it out would make it bleed, and there's no guarantee it's not much worse even than it looks.

Finnick and I support her between us as our whole group limps back. About halfway there, a hovercraft touches down to take everyone who needs emergency medical attention to a base in town, not so isolated like the bunkers. They grab Satin and then insist that I come as well. I deny it, but eventually realize that there's really no point in arguing with these incredibly opinionated white-masked people. So I wind up in the hovercraft with Satin, Gale, Walsh, and several others whose names I _still_ haven't learned.

I relax into the seat as well as I can with my wounds, and ignore the faces of the men I've just slaughtered as they parade past my mind's eye. I remember each one; I saw them all.

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**A/N: I know, I know, lame ending! Fear not, more is coming!**


	44. Chapter 44: Nightmares

**A/N: Yes, you have complete permission to kill me. If anyone's still reading this, please let me know, although even if you aren't, I might update anyway. I have some very small excuses for my absence, and they go like this: German camp. Sophomore year. Lack of inspiration. More inspiration for other projects. Nerdfighteria.**

**Like I said, very small. I'll _try_ to continue with this story, but I can no longer say I'll try to update regularly: my schedule doesn't allow for that. I'm so sorry, guys. But here's the chapter.**

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Chapter 44: Nightmares

"Ow! What are you _doing?"_ I can't help but gasp as the medic's tweezers probe the wound in my side. I saw her pluck the bullet out about five minutes ago, so that can't be it.

The medic, whose nametag says she's called Rose, shakes her short blonde hair out of her eyes to look at me with a little annoyance. "If you must know, I'm removing shrapnel from both the bullet and your ribs. And please don't talk; your lungs move and I'm sure you don't want these to poke a hole in your air supply." She brandishes the bloody tweezers at me.

"Is a little anesthesia too much to ask?" I say quickly, before she can continue with my torture.

"Yes, actually. We need all the painkillers for the bomb victims and your friend over there." Rose nods towards Satin, who's surrounded by no less than four medics.

I let it rest.

Eventually, I have to move to a different room to free up my bed—which, to be perfectly honest, I don't need. I find myself in the company of four unfamiliar soldiers plus Gale. The ones I don't know are all but unconscious, and it doesn't take me long to notice the tubes in their wrists. Morphling. The painkiller I've been refused. I look at them in a new light now, taking in their expansive injuries.

Gale notices. "Makes you feel lucky, doesn't it?" He's got a gash on one cheek and his arm is in a sling.

"Yeah."

After several moments, he speaks again, with an oddly uneasy look on his face. "What… In the arena, when you…"

I feel my stomach give an unpleasant lurch. "Look, no offense, but I really do not need to be reminded of that place right now."

He doesn't give up, though. "I'm just wondering about the… killing." He fidgets in his seat. "Does it get easier?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Does it?"

"No. Never." I stare at him. "What's the point of this?" Reliving my nightmares? No thanks. Gale mumbles something that I can't quite hear. "What?"

"I never killed anyone before today." I can see his jaw clench.

"Oh." Then, tentatively, "How many?"

"Eleven."

"…Sorry." I don't really know what to say, because I've killed more, because this hurts, and not least of all because this is the first conversation Gale and I have had without being in some way nasty.

Gale sighs. "Yeah. I just thought it—all of the… well, you know, the _horror_—I thought it might go away. After a little while."

"You don't want that," I say quietly. "If you didn't feel anything, you'd never stop."

He nods jerkily. "I thought it would be like hunting," he says. "I didn't think there'd be any difference. But then…"

"You saw their faces." _And you saw the light leave their eyes._ I look at him, and for the first time in the conversation he meets my gaze. "If you have to kill anyone again," like there's the possibility he won't, "it'll only be harder. But you'll learn how to distance yourself from it."

"But you just said that if you didn't feel—"

I cut him off. "I mean distancing yourself in the moment. It'll come back later, trust me."

"It does for you?"

"Every night."

But that night, however, as I sleep overnight in the rebels' medical base, there are no dreams to bother me. It's the first time in a long time, so when I wake I want to hold on to the peace. Yet, as usual, chaos interferes.

Chaos comes in the form of Finnick, who falls off of his bed as he rolls over and flails wildly, smacking his hand right at the spot where Rose the medic was digging around my ribs the day before.

"_WHAT?"_ I don't mean to yell, but the pain's so sharp and unexpected that my intended whisper comes out much louder.

Finnick gets to his feet, grinning sheepishly down at me. "Sorry, Peeta. You gotta take it like a man, though."

We're in the communal sleeping area, surrounded by all of the other members of Squad 657 who came in for treatment. Now everyone's awake, looking at Finnick and me with varying degrees of annoyance. Satin looks particularly worse for wear, and, remembering the giant piece of metal stuck in her arm before, I feel guilty for waking her up—but still upset with Finnick, still uncomfortable due to my own wound.

After much grumbling, we all get up and ready for the day, because now that we're awake there's not much point in trying to go back to sleep.

Breakfast is withheld, sadly, until those of us who are well enough are on the hovercraft back to the bunkers. That turns out to be everyone, even Satin.

"I suppose it's back to border patrol, then," Walsh sighs as we take off.

Finnick gives a surprised laugh. "You're not saying you _like_ to fight…?"

"No! Of course not. But it's a bit boring, you know, if nothing happens in a whole day. Just walking."

I can sympathize with that, of course. But. "Still, I'd rather have nothing than another attack."

Gale's reverted to his closed-off, grim self. "Good luck with that. There's a war on." He's slumped over in his seat, facing slightly away from the rest of us.

Satin pokes his leg with her foot. "Lighten up! It wouldn't hurt to be an optimist once in a while, you know." Gale scowls and turns around so that he's got his back to her. Satin raises her eyebrows. "Well, it was worth a shot."

But I'm thinking about the conversation from last night, where Gale was civil and asked for advice about living as a murderer. And I'm thinking this: what right do any of us have, really, to laugh and be happy, when we have killed? Isn't that more or less the same as saying, we do not care how much blood we spill? We laugh at the lives we have ended?

And isn't that thought so unbearable that we _must laugh?_

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**A/N: A shoutout to people who understand: DFTBA! And also Allons-y, and Geronimo, and Fantastic... I bet you can guess at some new things in my life, eh?**


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